


Lone Wolf

by Peasantaries



Series: Regency AU [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Mates, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Tension, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:43:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8333257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peasantaries/pseuds/Peasantaries
Summary: If Stiles weren't mistaken, he would almost say King Hale was amused. My, he might even be smiling, if the uneven line that's broken his stiff mouth could be called that.
  But that was absurd. Kings don't smile. Especially King Hale.
This is the story of how Stiles and Derek meet, in a different life, in another world. Spanning the years and the many tragedies they're forced to face, fate draws them to one other again and again no matter how far they roam. After all, love is not love until it's made to suffer: until it's made to endure the strain of separation. [COMPLETE]





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages and ages and ages ago and I'm only uploading now as I have so many fics that are gathering dust and it makes me sad.
> 
> Slightly inspired by Charlotte Bronte's _Jane Eyre _, and very loosely based on the plot of 'The Count of Monte Cristo'__
> 
> Also thank you Kathleen, I don't know how many times you must have read this thing  
> 

__

 

> _Mer_  
>  _One for myself_  
>  _One for the wish_  
>  _I long for you_  
>  _We met_  
>  _One is for you_  
>  _One for the gold_  
>  _I long for that_
> 
> _-_ Mer, Hyukoh

 

_Prologue_

The time is 1806.

King and Queen Hale reign over the land. They're compassionate, kind, involved with their people.

Their children are the height of popularity. Any outing is published in the days papers. All their outfits are displayed in fashion events, are replicated and worn by the highest of society.

Life is as it has always been.

And yet a year passes, but that year brings change. A blanket of darkness, of fear, covers Beacon Hills.

Strange events occur. Murders, Sightings of the Supernatural. The people are crazed with terror, and lash out at anyone accused. Witchcraft trials are held in the street. People are dragged from their homes.

The King and Queen try valiantly to end the madness, the killing of innocent people. But then the unthinkable happens. The great monarchs are murdered in their sleep.

The people are roused from their state of insanity, and the country mourns.

But our story does not begin with their death. Our story begins with love.

*

_25th December 1807_

His father is invited to the annual banquet, seeing as he'a a nobleman, and therefore, Stiles is inevitably brought along.

The food is wonderful, the atmosphere alive.

Despite this, Stiles still finds himself wholly unoccupied and utterly bored. He drums restless fingers on the table, knee jittering, and pretends his gaze slides from face to face for the opportunity to glance at the King, sitting at the far end of the table.

He's a lot younger than Stiles imagined. After the death of his parents, along with his unexpected crowning, he's been a recluse, his siblings keeping close to him.

He's an unexpectedly attractive man, possessing broad shoulders, a sharp jawline.

Stiles has never seen anyone so handsome. The King's eyes are piercingly bright and clear, like Mediterranean Sea waters.

He remembers hearing of the news just some months past, a surprise to everyone as they believed Laura would be anointed Queen, oldest at twenty nine. And yet Prince Hale took up the role, took the burden off her shoulders.

But nobody knows anything of his character, being so withdrawn in society.

Many believe him rude as he so rarely speaks, and when he does, he's cuttingly inappropriate and sharp.

 _He also seems to have a perpetual frown lining his forehead_ , Stiles notes.

Still, he doesn't appear so arrogant and menacing now. To Stiles, he simply appears sad.

Everything of his countenance is poised, and yet if he's not talking with anyone, a sorrow so wretched, so bitter and almost _furious_ bleeds into his expression.

It's rather painful to see. Stiles wonders if he's the only one able to do so.

There's talk of him taking a wife, gossip amongst the Kingdom. It's only natural, being so young, the ideal eligible bachelor. _And being the King, of course,_ Stiles has to remind himself.

Most of the guests here are fashionable and beautiful young women.

Stiles glances back down at his plate, an odd nervous feeling eating away at his appetite. He isn't exactly hungry.

He rolls his food this way and that, and then glances up curiously again.

A pair of green eyes are fixed on him.

Stiles startles and drops his cutlery.

His Majesty blinks and gazes elsewhere.

After the meal, people mingle. The King makes his way around, greeting fathers and daughters and smiling genially.

"Shouldn't we be going?" Stiles asks innocently, feeling awkward. It's clear there are no marital prospects in their family.

"We leave when the King asks." His father replies quietly. "He's attempting to be _social."_ He says significantly, and raises a brow.

"Oh. So-"

"Hello." A voice greets gruffly. Stiles' pulse jumps, and he whips his head around.

"Your Majesty, thank you for a lovely evening." His father steps forward quickly, and shakes his hand.

"You're welcome." He replies with a nod. He looks to Stiles.

"Yes, sir." Stiles nods. He cringes.

The King looks amused.

"I never caught your name." King Hale suggests.

"Stiles."

" _Stiles._ " He repeats. "How unusual. Stiles."

"That's how it's pronounced." Stiles states. His parents, the royal princesses and the King himself all silence and look at Stiles.

"Because people often get it wrong! The pronunciation!" He adds incoherently.

His parents wince. The ladies look to each other.

The King raises a sardonic eyebrow. "Is that so?" His guise is blank and unimpressed, but there is light dancing in his eyes.

The collar of Stiles' tunic feels stifling. "Yes, my Lord." He answers.

If Stiles weren't mistaken, he would almost say King Hale was amused. My, he might even be smiling, if the uneven line that's broken his stiff mouth could be called that.

But that was absurd. Kings don't smile. Especially King Hale.

*

_4th January 1808_

After that bizarre evening, Stiles accompanies his father to the more frequent, intimate gatherings in the castle.

He refuses to acknowledge why.

Stiles, quite frankly, does not 'fit in', in the loosest sense of the word. He makes inappropriate comments, laughs too loudly, talks too animatedly, and eats unattractively.

Most evenings, as everyone is finishing their meal, Stiles escapes to the castle's library: a quiet, dark room that offers solace and peace.

One night as he's sneaking away, he looks behind him and literally bumps into a wall.

Which has arms that steady him, and a voice that grunts at impact.

Stiles glances up quickly. "Your Highness my deepest apol--"

"Please, call me Derek." The King says roughly, clearing his throat. "I'm hardly the King yet."

"You'll make an excellent one, nevertheless." Stiles assures sincerely, although wondering where on earth the words are suddenly coming from. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut and cease to exist.

Derek smiles  for a moment, before raising an eyebrow. "And where were you going?" He lowers his voice. "Have you finally realised we're all sinfully boring, and are plotting your escape?" He asks seriously.

Stiles laughs louder than they were both expecting. "Not quite!" He grins. "But sinfully boring? Well, you certainly do live up to your reputation."

Derek eyes flicker alight. "Of being curt and rude?"

Stiles tilts his head. "I was thinking more along the lines of brutally honest, but rude would be applicable."

Derek's laughter booms loud and bright, and Stiles joins him. They laugh there for a moment, leaning closer in conspiracy and trying to muffle the sound.

"Where were you headed anyway?" Derek asks finally, a true smile softening his sharp features.

"The library." Stiles answers. "It's ... quiet." He admits after a moment, feeling himself flush.

"Well, you must show me this room." Derek says with a gesture in front of him.

"It's your house, don't you know it?" Stiles blinks.

Derek's expression dims. "It was my parents. It doesn't feel quite mine yet."

Stiles swallows. "I see. Well then, I must educate you." He says, and starts up the stairs. He looks behind, only to find Derek lagging.

"Come!" He shouts and takes a hold of Derek's wrist, pulling him up.

Derek turns and laughingly allows himself to be pulled.

They take long, winding corridors until finally they arrive at the room. Stiles opens the door and breathes a sigh of relief, the silence a cloak falling over him like a blanket.

He goes to sit on the settee near the windowpane. Derek sits with him, as natural as breathing.

He asks Stiles about his life, his aspirations, his childhood, his family. And Stiles finds himself answering, gesturing wildly, laughing loudly, twisting and flailing and laughing, but Derek listens.

*

_16th March, 1808_

Stiles and some friends have decided to take a carriage into town for a festival. All around them is bustling activity, a variety of acts on stage, colour and music and the night air.

It's Friday. Stiles feels jittery and hyperactive, excitement in his veins, rushing through his blood.

Still, his thoughts keep straying to Derek.

They've been growing closer. They often eat lunch, walk in the village, talk and enjoy the simple company of one another.

Once, when they got lost and walked for miles in the wrong direction and couldn't seem to find a carriage anywhere, they laughed and laughed, and were still laughing on the way home as they parted. Stiles had never laughed so much in his life, never mind in one day.

They're friends _. Good_ friends. Stiles has always been with Scott, his oldest and dearest companion since coming to Beacon Hills, but Derek's quick-fire sarcasm can have him in stitches, his kindness and compassion touched beyond belief.

He feels as if he's known Derek all his life. There's an ease that comes with Derek's company Stiles has never experienced. Although they haven't known each other long, Stiles can speak to Derek about anything - the most secret and intimate, or the most banal and simple. 

"So the first thing you do when you wake, before anything else, is roll onto the floor?" Derek shook his head in incredulity, although he was grinning.

"Yes! It's not that difficult to grasp!" Stiles cried.

"You _actively_ roll, out of your bed, to fall onto the floor?"

"It helps me wake up!" He defended and Derek finally let go, booming his laughter.

"Well, what do you do?" He asked. "You must have servants that wake you?"

"Ahh yes, after I have been wakened by Nymphs serenading me, I am washed and dressed by pixies - "

"Okay, okay!" Stiles interrupted, chuckling. "Point made."

"And that is?" Derek inquired politely.

"Never underestimate royalty." Stiles stated.

And Derek laughed.

Stiles is getting steadily more tipsy. He feels his focus slipping as the night wears on, his vision growing murky and warm. A blur of ladies pass and move on, and Stiles nods and smiles, not remembering any of them.

There's one girl, however, Allison, who introduces herself to them. Scott flushes bright as she talks, and they learn she aspires to be a dancer, and that's she's preforming tonight.

Stiles pats Scott on the back and goes to the bar. A few other women sidle up and chat with him, and Stiles simply smiles, happy and flattered and distracted.

Then he notices a familiar face.

"Princess Laura!" He exclaims. She turns and sees him, and beams.

"What a pleasant surprise." She says.

"Yes. I am here with my good friend Scott, although I believe I have been abandoned for a pretty face."

She laughs. "Who are you with?" He asks innocently, glancing ahead of her.

"My sister, Cora. If you are looking for Derek, he is at the palace."

Stiles laughs nervously, although the tips of his ears colour. "Ah yes, my royal acquaintance." He says.

"Well, he chooses his friends." Laura grins. "I don't know how you did it, but he likes you."

Stiles tries to quell the colour rising to his cheeks by curling his toes. "I sometimes forget he's actually King." He admits.

"You and I both." She admits. "Because I'm oldest, I should rightfully be Queen, but Derek told me I wasn't ready. He promised me he was. I sometimes question my judgement in believing him."

Stiles is quiet, thinking. "What age is Derek?"

"Twenty three, as of February second."

"Twenty three? My, he is young."

"Why, and what age might you be?"

"Nineteen." He confesses, sheepish. "It's simply that he sometimes seems so much older."

Laura nods. "That he does."

"Stiles! Are you ready to leave?" Scott comes bounding closer, Allison in tow.

Laura smiles genially and Scott looks to her.

"Princess Laura." He gasps. Allison curtseys quickly, scrambling for the hem of her dress.

"None of that, I was hoping to be off duty tonight." She waves laughingly.

Stiles laughs with her, but Scott simply looks at him, horrified. He rolls his eyes.

"Well. We best be off. It was lovely talking to you, Laura."

"You too, Stiles." She grins, eyes glinting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So soon? Who are you and what have you done to the girl who takes 6 months to update?
> 
> Here's the thing - this story is basically all written, and I would upload it as one chapter, but I don't know how to.
> 
> So. I'm just going to keep posting this one, because in all honesty it's lying in my folder and annoying me.

_17th March, 1808_

Stiles arrives at the castle early in the morning. It's a brisk and cool sunrise, winter still lingering in the air.

He receives a pass from the guard whom he's coming to know as Boyd, a quiet, pleasant man, albeit a little demure. Stiles is given a curt nod when he grins widely.

He calls on Derek. He waits in the living area. He fiddles with the open curtains, paces the room, sits down, stands up, sits again.

Derek is taking longer than expected.

Stiles huffs, his knee bouncing. He stands again, touching the vase on the tabletop, lifting it up and examining it.

"Careful."

Stiles startles, and jumps. The vase almost falls, but he catches it quickly, juggling until he can secure a grip.

Stiles whips his head up to find Laura grinning.

He sets it down pointedly with both hands. She laughs and comes closer.

"What are you doing here?" She asks.

"Waiting on Derek. We're to go for lunch. He isn't usually late." Stiles frowns, glancing to the doorway.

"Ah." She murmurs. "We must find another conversation topic than my younger brother." She grins.

"The weather is nice." He tries. She laughs delightedly.

Derek suddenly appears, striding into the room. "Are you ready?" He asks.

"Wh– yes, yes. I shall speak with you soon, Laura."

She grins at Derek as she glides away, and he gives her a cool, blank look. She smiles wider.

The walk is quiet. "Are you alright?" Stiles asks.

"Yes. Did you have a good time last night?"

"Oh, yes, thank you. I met–”

"Laura told me all about it." He says.

"Oh. Well me and my good friend were also introduced to a dancer, Allison. She and–”

"Sounds lovely." Derek says, nonchalant.

"Has something happened?" Stiles places a hand on Derek's shoulder and studies his expression.

Derek avoids his gaze, and nods distractedly. "No, I'm perfectly well."

"I would hate to be speak out of turn, but you're being awfully curt."

"I hadn't noticed." Derek says, shrugging, utterly insouciant.

Stiles gazes at the ground, hurt.

He wonders if Derek is simply bored of him, and doesn't have any interest in small talk conversation. He kicks up dirt along his way, shoulders steadily rising, dejected and tense.

The thought of not seeing Derek as they have been of late makes a small, leaden ball form heavily in his stomach.

They arrive and sit down. Stiles risks a glance to Derek's face, and finds it blankly staring at the options. They order drinks, and Stiles takes a sip.

He swallows.

"Is–”

"Do you have intentions to court Laura?"

Stiles splutters.

"Because she is already spoken for."

"No!" He screeches, then coughs. Stiles pats his chest, wheezing. People are turning to look at them.

"Whatever gave you that idea? What on earth?" Stiles wheezes.

Derek frowns. "I thought–”

"Exactly!" Stiles gesticulates. "There is no evidence to support the idea! You just thought!"

Derek purses his mouth and smiles a little. "So–”

"No!" Stiles affirms. "Not _at all_. Is that why you were being short? I understand why you would be protective, and I would never do anything without consulting you, but my, Derek, I thought something had happened!"

Derek chuckles. "Ah. Well, that's good, because I may have lied." Stiles notices the tips of his ears are hot. "She is not spoken for."

Stiles laughs with him. "I thought you had finally realised I was a simple commoner and wondered why we were friends!"

Derek stops laughing and frowns. "You thought what?"

Stiles waves his hand dismissively. "I'm glad it's only familial threats."

"You thought what? Stiles?"

"Nothing!" Stiles laughs.

"Why would you think that?"

Stiles sighs, and Derek leans closer.

"Stiles. You are the only person around my age who has spoken of something else other than politics and literature. Not to mention your addictive personality, imaginative humour and quick wit. Why ever else would I not crave your company?"

Stiles feels oddly hot and sweaty under his collar. He picks at his thumb and glances up at Derek's sincere expression. He lowers his eyes again and answers,

"You are a very kind man, Derek Hale. Too kind." He finds his voice rough, and clears his throat. "Unfortunately I don't agree, but I am glad you find me at least an ounce as admirable as I do you. I would loathe for us to part. I have discovered valuable friendship in your dry humour, a rare trust in your loyalty, and safety in your fierce bravery."

Derek is silent also, and Stiles notices him turn an alarming shade of red underneath his tan skin.

They order their breakfast and eat stiltedly, chatting idly about this and that, but there's a strange undercurrent of tension that runs throughout it that wasn't there before.

Derek casually asks, "So at the festival yesterday. Did you meet anyone?"

"Well Allison introduced herself to us, and Scott was quickly taken." Stiles smirks, opening his mouth about to carry on.

"What about yourself?" Derek asks cheerily, smiling.

Stiles frowns at his insistence. "No one of interest." He answers slowly. "Why?"

"No reason." Derek says.

*

_20th May, 1808_

Every month around the same time, Derek begins to withdraw. His careless humour is more calculated, his expressions more careful.

And there is gradually less an less physical contact.

And absence of physical contact can sometimes illustrate an excess of one. It is made so obvious to Stiles, when the time comes, that he and Derek are extremely close. And when Derek pulls away, Stiles finds himself bereft without the careless touches: the casual way Derek will brush the small of his back, gentle and protecting, the unthinking way he leans close in conversation.

Because when Stiles is close now, Derek will flinch, as though Stiles' presence causes him pain. When Stiles brushes their shoulders together in walking, Derek purposefully puts space between them.

He's left confused. Because it passes, as it always does, and things resettle back into their natural pattern.

This month is no different, and Derek is less frequent with visits, less familiar with touches.

"Is everything alright?" Stiles manages to ask one afternoon.

"Mm?" Derek blinks, lost in thought. "Yes, why?"

Stiles smiles. "I see you're away in your own world again. You do that often."

Derek rubs his forehead. "I'm sorry, I haven't been sleeping well."

Stiles frowns. "Why?"

Derek sighs. "It's a – personal matter."

"You can tell me." Stiles assures him.

Derek huffs. "Not with this, I'm afraid."

Stiles feels a stinging sensation in his chest. "I see."

Derek sighs. "Stiles, you can't begin to understand."

"Yes, of course." Stiles swallows his hurt.

"No, you really _wouldn't _understand."__

"Well I'm almost positive I should be the judge of that, but if you aren't willing to say, I won't force you." He says sharply.

Derek clenches his jaw. He opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it. "Stiles." He starts, and cuts himself off in frustration.

"Derek." Stiles begins, gentler. "It's alright. You know I'm here if you do decide to tell me."

Immediately, relief and gratitude floods Derek's features. "Thank you."

Stiles tries not to feel hurt, but mostly fails.

__*_ _

_21st May, 1808_

The next day, things seemed to have calmed. Derek is better - taking actions to touch Stiles, making sharp, witty remarks at every chance in an effort to extract Stiles' laughter from him.

He's trying; Stiles can clearly see it. He's really trying.

And so Stiles goes along - he pretends the incident never happened. If it's what Derek wants, then Stiles can give him it.

He turns laughingly, forming a reply on his tongue, only as he does so he suddenly realises how close Derek is, how near they're sitting.

Derek's breath is warm and touches just the tip of his nose, his mouth almost inches away, as if he's been leaning in. His eyes dark and translucent; startlingly green and staring at Stiles.

Stiles is suddenly, oddly reminded of the first time he saw them.

A moment of silence that falls over them, and then Derek sucks in a sharp breath and glances away, blinking to stare down at the floor.

"I apologise." He says strangely. "I fear I have overstayed my welcome."

Stiles frowns, thrown at the abrupt change. His head feels clouded, fuzzy. "Nonsense, you could never." He says.

Derek's mouth twists bitterly. "Because I'm the King."

Stiles places a hand on Derek's thigh. "Because you are my _friend._ You are more than my friend."

Derek turns his head, eyes wide. "You mean this?"

"Of course." Stiles murmurs.

Derek stares, his breath coming quickly, and then he breaches the small gap between them abruptly to touch his mouth to Stiles.

Stiles jerks back, forcefully. "What do you think you're doing?" He whispers.

Derek freezes, his muscles seizing up. "I–”

"Leave." His voice comes out stronger this time. "Now."

"Stiles." Derek tries to take his hand, fumbling.

"Get out, Derek." Stiles states.

Some spasm of emotion seems to cross Derek's face then, some ripple of pain, but it passes, and replaces with it a blankness.

"Very well." Derek says roughly. He stands slowly, and Stiles feels himself shaking were he sits, feels his hands trembling in his lap.

He sits there for a while after Derek leaves. He doesn't know how long he simply sits, unmoving.

His mouth feels foreign. His bottom lip tingles with phantom pressure.

Stiles resists the urge to touch it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really must apologise.
> 
> I know I promised updates would be frequent as this story is mostly finished, but I never realised how messy and unchronological it was. It took a lot of tidying, and I'm working on it, but I promise I'll try harder to finish. I split this chapter into two and hope to post the next half soon.

_29th May, 1808_

Over the next week, Stiles receives no further contact from the King. He tampers down his foolish, foolish disappointment, and simply goes about his matters.

He'd thought that he and Derek had had a connection, some instantaneous friendship. He must have been mistaken.

The incident replays in Stiles' mind. It makes his chest hurt, his heart pound. _It's not right,_ he thinks fiercely.

Derek wasn't in his right mind, something had been bothering him that day. Regret burns in Stiles' stomach like acid. He'd been too rash, too harsh.

Stiles almost visits. He imagines going to the castle, explaining his actions, apologising. But he quickly dismisses the notion. If Derek doesn’t want to contact, Stiles won’t contact.

In the end, the decision is taken from him.

 

*

He goes to the castle. Stiles can’t resist, and in any case, he wouldn’t like Derek to think him rude, or resentful.

Stiles doesn’t want to end their relationship on bad terms. He doesn't want to leave on bad terms. 

He waits outside on the grounds.

"Stiles." Derek says deeply, walking towards him. He clears his throat to the guards waiting, and they quietly leave.

Stiles will allow himself this last encounter.

He holds his wrapped present behind his back, swaying on the spot. Stiles tries a smile, but it’s tight, forced.

"Happy Birthday." He starts.

Derek nods, expression blank. "Thank you.” He clears his throat. “You’re – you're welcome to come inside.” His eyes won’t meet Stiles.

Stiles shakes his head. "I can’t stay for long. I just wanted to give you your present."

He hands him over his parcel. Derek frowns and reaches for it. He begins to open, tearing the paper quickly.

He breathes for a moment as he stares down. Stiles feels the urge to fill the silence.

"It is a framed picture of where we used to go on our long walks. I thought you might enjoy it. As a gift, but also as a goodbye. Well.” Stiles coughs. “I shall be going."

"Going?" Derek glances up and frowns. "Goodbye?"

"Oh. Goodbye." Stiles nods, and starts to retreat.

"No, goodbye? You are leaving?"

"Yes."

"To go home?" Derek clarifies.

"Well, I suppose you could say that, but I am also leaving for Poland this evening."

Derek stares. "Poland?" He whispers, aghast.

"Yes. So, I will be seeing you."

"For how long? How long are you going to Poland for?" Derek asks, incoherent.

"Possibly a few years, if I decide to return. If not, then I will be leaving forever."

"Forever." Derek repeats. "You are leaving forever? Never to come back?"

Stiles nods. He did not want to have to do this, but he couldn’t simply leave without any form of a goodbye.

Derek tightens his grip on his gift. "Never to come back once. Not once." He says again. "I don't." He looks lost. "Understand."

"My parents have family there. They’re being called home. And I will resettle."

"You are settled here." He states firmly. “Stiles _please_ , if this is about – ”

Stiles holds up a hand. “No. Derek, No.” Stiles takes a breath. “I have to apologise for my reaction, I know you weren’t thinking rationally. It's my fault.”

Derek simply looks at him.

"I have lived here for five years, and during that time. made two friends.” Stiles carries on. “You and Mr McCall. I can’t thank you enough, for your friendship.” Stiles glances to the ground. “I have numerous friends in Poland, and a large family. My parents wish to return."

"I see." Derek says quietly.

"Yes." Stiles replies roughly, then shakes his head. "Do not look so melancholy! Today is a celebration!" He laughs thickly.

Derek gazes at him. "I." His throat convulses, and he seemingly abandons his words, simply gazing at Stiles.

"Well." Stiles extends a hand, and they shake briskly. It feels cold, aloof. "I shall be off." He clears his throat, stepping back.

Derek blinks for a moment. "If you wish."

Stiles nods again. The stand there looking for a time, until Stiles laughs and shakes himself, waving again and walking away.

The second he turns around tears are in his vision, and his expression crumples. He cries quietly as he walks away, only with the comfort that nobody can see him.

Stiles sobers as he reaches the gate, turning back for one last moment to watch Derek leave.

Derek still stands, his expression one of desolation.

Stiles' heart jumps, and, embarrassed, he quickly wipes his cheeks and spreads on a huge grin, waving.

Derek lifts an arm, but he wavers, his nostrils flaring, swallowing convulsively.

His lips tremble, and he lifts a hand with more vigour, firmly presses his fingers to his uneven mouth, and extends that arm to Sties.

Stiles can’t see through the water blurring his eyes, but he laughs nonetheless, kisses his palm also, and throws his arm out.

He then mouths words that he could never utter aloud, and, overcome, runs to his carriage.

 

*  
*

_1st March, 1809_

Stiles truly believed that he would resettle, that things would go back to how they were before he left.

It’s been almost a full year, but every day that passes is a pain unimaginable.

Stiles never thought that an emotional pain could act as a physical one. Never thought that he would be rendered curled up in bed, crying, months after their parting. The simplest reminders of Derek send him into bouts such as this, a reopened wound time and time again.

“Write him.” His mother tries, stroking back his feverish forehead. “Write to him.”

“I miss him, mama.” Stiles croaks in Polish, easily returning to his mother tongue. “I miss him so much, I want –” he curls his hands into fists and presses them to his eyes, unable to say the words.

“We need to go back.” She murmurs.

Stiles rips his hands away, eyes wide and shining. “You mean it?”

Stiles is suddenly reminded of Derek, eyes clear, breath close, _‘you mean it?’_

Stiles told him then that Derek was more than a friend to him. And he does mean it. He knows that now.

He’s never missed anyone this much, not Scott, nor Laura, not even Beacon Hills can account for this gaping hole inside him. The only thing that could fill it wholly and completely is Derek, warm and solid in his arms.

His mother looks at him, her gaze softening. “Yes. I mean it.”

 

*

_12th March 1809_

He’s jittery, nervous. It’s a strange feeling; Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever felt it before. It constricts his lungs, tightens his chest. He swallows, finds his throat dry.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, and scrutinises himself in the mirror. His jaw is sharper, his shoulders broader. He’s no longer a boy, that skinny, awkward person Derek knew.

 _But what does Derek look like now?_ _What will he do when he sees me?_

Stiles’ throat convulses, and he exhales a slow breath, trying to calm his nerves. _Nerves_. Why is he so nervous?

There’s a masquerade ball tonight in the castle. It’s not as if Stiles is too scared to face him, after all this time. But it means he can catch Derek alone, he won’t arouse suspicion by taking the King away. He can simply find Derek among the others, a faceless mask in the crowd.

After all, Derek will be in costume too. Nobody will recognise him in the midst of the festives.

But Stiles knows, deep within, that he’ll have no trouble finding Derek.

He picks up his mask, a simple black cover for his eyes, the nose elongating almost into a snout.

Stiles glances at his reflection once more, and coupled with his feverish eyes, finds himself looking at a wild animal. He doesn’t recognise the feral creature in the mirror.

Stiles straightens his shoulders and makes his way out.

*

As is happens, Stiles quickly finds out he blends in more than the rest.

He’s able to slink away for the whole night with relative ease, unrecognisable and unknown. This is his first outing since returning to Beacon Hills, but Stiles wanted to speak with Derek before anyone else. He wanted to let Derek know he was back, and tell him the reason why.

All throughout the night, Stiles’ gaze is restless, palms sweating in his gloves as he clenches them tight, surely it shouldn’t be _this_ difficult –

There’s the sound of laughter, a voice booming loud and happy, and Stiles whips his head around.

And sees him.

There he is, just as charming and as handsome as before. He’s barely changed, but still, it's Derek, mask hardheartedly held over his eyes as the woman on his arm leans in to murmur something.

Derek is grinning, the wide stretch mostly obscured by the mask he waves it over his face, and Stiles.

Freezes.

He simply stills where he is, watching motionlessly as Derek passes, nodding to his guests, before his eyes fall on Stiles and stay there.

Derek slows, his grin dissipating off his face as Stiles only stares, wide-eyed, back at him.

The woman – dark hair and dark skin, exotically and exquisitely beautiful – frowns in concern, leaning close to Derek.

Derek blinks, and with one last look to Stiles, he turns away.

Stiles pushes past bodies in a blur, arms clawing his way out, feet stumbling because he can’t see where he’s going, vision wet and blurring.

He readjusts his mask over his face, worried he'll be noticed, recognised, but the crowd simply part as he violently shoves his way through.

As soon as he’s outside Stiles sucks a sharp breath in, but then glances around. He suddenly doesn’t recognise his surroundings, or how on earth to get home.

It’s the side entrance to the castle, out to the forest, and Stiles whips his head for a escape, unable to see through his foolish tears.

He rips his mask off, scrubbing the wetness on his cheeks before throwing it to the ground.

He almost wants to fall, he almost wants to scream, but his feet are moving with determination, quickly striding away, jaw clenched and hands balled to fists.

His pace picks up after a moment, feet stumbling faster, and then he’s running, strides lengthening and footfalls slapping the ground.

“Stiles!” He hears behind him, a familiar voice, but Stiles just squeezes his eyes shut and pushes himself harder.

“STILES! _Wait!”_

His arms slice through the wind as he sprints, breaths harsh and quick in the night air, hardly knowing where’s going, but knowing he needs to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a lot of tears. Happier times ahead!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello peeps. so enjoy this chapter of happy times, hope you like it! I know we're nearly halfway through but this isn't really the largest part of the story, so chapters etc might go up. The fact I always include dates and year will become apparent soon

_12th March 1809_

Stiles makes it home somehow, although he doesn’t know how. He still doesn't know how.

After running for so long his legs burn, his feet ache, Stiles stops to lean against a tree, pushing his forehead to the wet bark and panting. He waits there, catching his breath for a moment and gasping in air through clenched teeth.

He glances around, eyes squinting in the unfamiliar surroundings. Everything is dark, gnarled woods, twisted foliage and trees. The moon cuts through the forest like a knife, sharp and blinding.

Stiles curses. He's always needed a carriage home from the castle, but in his anger, he thought he could make the journey. _Oh, so you're a horse now?_ He thinks bitterly. How foolish.

Stiles clenches his jaw and goes to take a step forward. He puts his foot in front of him, until it happens.

The unmistakable and chilling sound of a howl. A wolf’s howl.

Stiles tenses, flattening himself against the tree, heart lodging in his throat.

Oh God, he’s heard terrible stories. Horrible, horrific stories. People eaten alive by monsters, creatures not quite animal, but not human either. Torn apart, ripped to shreds. Hybrids all on their own, that stand tall on hind legs and snarl with blood stained teeth.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut hard, balling his hands. _This is hysteria. It’s mania talking._

This is what caused the bloodbaths in the street, innocent girls taken from their home, clothes torn and hair pulled. Men crying to their families as they’re staked to see if they’ll react, if they’ll _shift._

Stiles only realises he’s breathing hard when there’s total silence.

His eyes fly open, and everything in his whole body stops.

Two eyes blaze red through the dark.

Stiles is frozen for a second, half,  _less_ , before he’s running.

Something in his body propels him forward, something inside him wants to _live._ Stiles is desperate, even if just in that moment.

He's running.

The creature is quick on his heels. Stiles has never run so fast, he’s never been so quick and agile. He jumps logs and hits leaves as he’s running, _really_ running this time.

He looks behind him but the – the _thing_ isn’t there, only when Stiles whips his head back around, he catches it loping beside him, barely even trying.

Toying with him.

Stiles grits his teeth, heart pumping and feet pushing him on.

He might not be inhuman, he might not be supernatural, but to hell, he’ll _survive_.

He makes a sharp duck left, but then the creature is there, at his other side in the barest blink. Stiles startles, realigning his course, and the monster keeps pace with him, panting softly, eyes red and flitting easily from Stiles to the forest to Stiles, head tilting to the side.

Almost as if it’s steering him. Guiding him in some direction.

Stiles nearly halts then, nearly digs his heels into the dirt, thinking it’s luring him to a den.

He’s so preoccupied with looking at the creature, he doesn’t notice until he flies through forest trees and into a clearing.

Stiles tumbles roughly, but scrambles up in a desperate bid for his life, realising he’ll have no cover, _no hope,_ out here.

The monster lies beyond the trees, watching.

Stiles whips around, only he sees his village in the distance, a familiar, shining beacon of light.

He trips and stumbles his way there, legs suddenly weak in relief. He’s sloppy and uncoordinated as he staggers. _Easy prey._

Open, unprotected. Vulnerable.

Stiles glances around several times, turning his head back every few seconds quickly, sure he'll find an animal hot on his heels.

The wolf’s eyes never leave him. Even after he’s safe.

 

*

Stiles collapses to the ground, too exhausted and weak to move. His knees buckle as he folds, hands hitting mud, face slapping the wet, warm dirt.

He lies there for a long time, long enough for him to know he might not make it. He might not even survive. It’s too cold, too wet. His body will slowly shut down.

Stiles starts laughing, a little hysterical. He’s survived a monster, and tiredness is the thing to kill him.

It starts as soft giggles, and then he turns onto his back and laughs, tears rolling down the sides of his face.

Suddenly there’s a figure over him.

Stiles can barely stand to open his eyes, but he tries, weakly.

The figure is human, it’s _man_ , warm and alive and bare-chested. Stiles frowns as arms scoop under his legs and lift him.

Stiles puts a hand on the person’s chest, and then their jaw, feeling their face.

“Dere…?” He slurs, brain slow, sluggish.

“Shh.” A deep voice resonates through him.

 

*

Stiles bolts upright in bed, sweat all down his back, sticking to his clothes.

_A dream. It was a dream. All of it, only a dream._

Stiles breathes around the tightness in his chest, and puts a hand over his ribs, feeling strangely cracked and bruised.

He peels the sheets off his bed and tries to stand, but finds he folds again, slumping against the edge of the bedframe.

His mother appears from nowhere, abruptly in his line of vision.

“Stiles!” She cries. “What are you doing out of bed? It’s strict rest.” She manages to haul him back onto the mattress, but Stiles frowns.

“What?”

“You were half-frozen to death, feverish and delirious!” She scolds. “Honestly, what were you thinking?”

Stiles, before passing out, thinks – _not a dream._

 

*

Over the next week, Derek comes to the house every day. He asks to visit Stiles, to see for himself that Stiles is alright. To even take one glance.

Stiles turns him away every time. Tells the maids to let Derek know he's sleeping, despite their insistence.

Never mind imagining Derek lifting him to safety, but repeatedly babbling Derek’s name while delirious in front of both his parents is embarrassment enough for one lifetime.

Derek, standing godly and godlike when he found Stiles, looking upon him like that – passed out, delirious.

Stiles can safely say he’s never done anything in his life to deserve that. He's not going to allow Derek to see him like this.

The memory still burns his eyelids: Derek laughing with that woman on his arm, leaning into her, face bright and easy.

He’s not missed Stiles. He’s not missed Stiles at all, not even a little bit. Derek has no comprehension of the pain Stiles has been going through.

 

*  
*

_28th March 1809_

The morning is an utter disaster.

His father had to run errands and his mother was in town with relatives, so Stiles was alone for the day. But still, the maids shooed him out of bed at eleven in the morning, telling him he’d rested well and truly now.

All he wanted to do was stay under the sheets and wallow in self-pity.

He goes a walk in the afternoon for some fresh air, and then his parents come back to dine with him. He asks them about their day, listens and answers when they ask him.

Stiles retires early, already drained.

But for some reason, as soon as he’s in bed, he finds himself wide awake. He’s been exhausted all day, simply wanting to sleep, but tosses and turns when his head hits the pillow.

Eventually, after a few hours he sits up with a growl, rubbing one eye.

Stiles sighs, glancing around the darkness before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The sudden image of red eyes flashes in his mind, but he shakes it off, scoffing. _Delirium, obviously._

Stiles pads softly over to the window and sits on the ledge, curling up around his legs, arms wrapped tight over his knees.

The moon is almost full tonight. It's the only thing he can see in the black abyss of the sky.

There's a noise. It sounds almost like a ticking. He thinks it's just the branches hitting against the glass, and pays it no mind.

It comes again. Stiles ignores it, pressing fingers into his eyes, a headache beginning to bloom. The noise is more insistent now.

Stiles glances down from staring up to the moon, and then just about does a double take, jumping up in shock.

Derek is standing at the bottom of his bedroom window, throwing rocks up to catch his attention.

Stiles unlatches his window lock and pulls it open.

" _Hh!_ –" he chokes, his voice cutting off. "What are you doing?" Stiles shout-whispers, after he regains the ability of speech. "It's past the early hours of the morning!"

It must have been raining outside, because his hair is plastered wetly to his face, and his clothes look damp. He has such an expression of pain on his face, though, that Stiles pauses.

Derek doesn’t say anything, eyes shining up at him.

"I'll go downstairs and open the doors for you, just wait." Stiles tells him.

"I can climb." Derek states, the first words from his mouth that Stiles has heard in over a year. The sound is melodic, heavenly even in it's roughness.

"Don't be ludicrous, you –” Stiles starts, ignoring the quick thud of his heart.

But Derek has already grasped the vines crawling up the brick wall.

"Derek!" Stiles shouts, heart in his throat. "Derek, you'll fall! Don't be ridiculous! Get down! This isn’t a medieval novel!"

By some inhuman strength, Derek has managed halfway up. It's surely not possible.

"If you don't get down this instant, I swear to God." Stiles threatens.

Derek's nails dig into the cracks in the wall as he hauls himself up, but he’s straining. As soon as he's close enough, Stiles gets a hold of his forearms and pulls with all his strength.

They tumble heavily into his bedroom, crashing in a heap of limbs.

"What were you thinking?" Stiles straightens and distances himself quickly, heart jumping to his throat. "You could have been killed! What in _God's_ name is so urgent it couldn't wait until the morning?"

Derek falters. He hesitates, and Stiles fumes, ruffled and flushed in his sleep clothes.

"You have some serious explaining to do." He intones, jaw clenched

"I." Derek looks small, and a little lost. He's never looked less a King. "I had to see you.” He tries weakly.

"Excuse me?" Stiles asks bewilderedly.

"I was going for a walk, but I felt this wild – _restlessness_ in my chest.” Derek wrestles with words, trying to communicate, desperate. “I thought - I _knew_  that I must go to you. So I ran through the forest at the back of the castle, all the way here."

Derek’s eyes bore into his, and as Stiles finds himself suddenly speechless. Derek steps closer, suddenly, voice deepening.

"Stiles." He starts. "I feel this – this indescribable chemistry, this irrevocable connection to you.” His chest is heaving, gaze flitting over Stiles’ face. “I feel as if you must know, I feel sometimes maybe you do, this wide channel between us – it thins to a thread of _string_ anytime we are parted, surely you must feel it. To be separated for any length is torturous in and of itself. When you left, Stiles, I gripped to the last vestiges of our connection, but tonight I felt it precarious enough to snap, and surely then there will be a pain unimaginable.”

Stiles has stopped breathing, muscles frigid and frozen, shocked.

Derek misunderstands, and his cheeks flush, seeing Stiles’ silence as hesitancy, disinclination.

“I know that, to do so – to be together, it would be inconceivable, seen as immoral, seen as some sickness, a disease.” Derek is fully flushed now, colour riding high on his cheeks. “But Stiles, you make me feel – _more_ alive, more vibrant, you must know this.” He’s still speaking in hushed tones, as if unable to raise his voice. “The way I feel for you is incomparable, supposedly a sin if only you could explain why you make me believe there is a heaven.”

Stiles feels his eyes burn and grit at those words, and is unable to blink away the sudden water sitting on his bottom lashes.

Derek holds out his palms spread, not yet registering the emotion on Stiles' face, his eyes made wider with his flat hair, his urgent gaze.

"If you give me a chance, I can love you and take care of you better than anyone, anything. I can give you everything, I can grant any wish you desire. Any whim or fancy is yours. All I ask is your fidelity, Stiles. If you grant me that, I can give you the world.” Derek is so earnest, Stiles can truly _see_ he means it. “And it will be difficult to be accepted, but I have never been a selfless person, that is something you should know now. I cannot deny myself you, my - my _being_ calls out to you." Derek’s eyes are wild and frantic, breathing harsh.

Stiles steps forward into Derek’s personal space, pulse thudding, and watches Derek’s nostrils flare.

“Derek.” Stiles’ voice is rough. “You needn’t ask for my fidelity, it’s yours. As is my heart, and my soul.”

Derek is similarly frozen, and Stiles huffs a laugh.

“I see there has been some miscommunication.” Stiles begins, and – emboldened – reaches out to touch Derek’s side, his fingers tentative. He moves closer still, but Derek doesn’t breathe.

“At the ball, I saw you with a woman.” Stiles begins, looking down to his fingertips playing at Derek’s coat. “I thought – I assumed these feelings were not returned.”

Derek’s mouth parts, blossoming like a flower. “What?”

Stiles swallows, suddenly finding his throat dry. “I saw you laughing, with another woman. I concluded you were no longer interested, and ran. I haven’t been avoiding you for want of cutting ties, quite the opposite.” Stiles lifts his eyes. “I couldn’t bear to be near you, knowing I could never have what I wanted. And what I want is – t-to be your lover, your partner, your companion.” Stiles’ voice wavers, but his gaze is steady.

Derek looks similarly speechless. His eyes rove over all of Stiles' face, seeking something other than the truth, but they get caught and tangled on the sight of Stiles’ lips.

"You mean this?" Still looking at Stiles' mouth.

It’s an echo of last year, when Stiles had pulled away, foolishly not understanding his own heart.

"Yes." Stiles breathes.

"Oh." Derek grunts, as if punched from his chest. He stands, eyes caressing Stiles' mouth.

Stiles shifts as close as possible, and this time, breaches the gap.

The first touch of Derek's lips to his is at once odd and wonderful.

He relaxes his mouth and welcomes the strange new sensation of warmth against his lips. Stiles sighs through his nose, relaxing in bliss.

Derek moves as if struck by lightning, hands abruptly coming up to hold Stiles’ sides, pressing the length of his body to him. A thigh slides between his, desperate for contact.

Stiles tenses, nervous and surprised, and Derek immediately ends the kiss.

"Do excuse me." He coughs, pulling away and smoothing his clothes.

Stiles laughs, suddenly exuberant, and straightens Derek's hem.

"You are lucky that I do like you, otherwise I should be inclined to take advantage of your promises." Stiles chuckles, warm with mirth and joy.

Derek grins, eyes lighting in mischief.

"Do you want to know a secret?" He asks.

"Possibly." Stiles raises an eyebrow, feeling playful and giddy.

Derek leans in and whispers against his mouth. "I would have given you everything anyway."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little bit of a late update - both in time and in actual date, but here is some smut for you lovely, patient readers, and a promise that I'm completing all my in-progress fics very soon - I have this one written out, it's around another 15K, so I really want to complete it in the near future.

Derek leaves shortly after that, but not before kissing Stiles again, twice in quick succession, and jumping out the window before Stiles can so much as blink.

Stiles laughs, breathless, and shakes his head. He touches two fingers to his mouth, only this time, he’s grinning.

*

He lays awake that night, too jittery and hyperactive to even think about sleeping. Morning doesn’t take long, but it still feels as though decades pass before it finally comes.

At last he stands, crossing over to the window and watching the rising sun come above the hill. His heart hasn’t stopped pounding since the moment he set eyes on Derek, and feels as if it lurches again at sunrise.

_When will we see each other again? How soon can I call Derek to me?_

Stiles, abruptly, feels a leaden weight form in his gut, remembering that Derek isn’t always available, that they’ve always had to schedule their lunches in the past, in-between Derek’s official meetings and business.

The good spirits that he had been in, keeping him uplifted for more than twenty-four hours, suddenly disappear, replacing with them a sour, dank atmosphere.

He won’t see Derek today. And maybe not even tomorrow.

Stiles feels himself sliding into something that could only be described as despair.

In the space of a few seconds, the fantasies of pressing soft kisses to the spot that he had missed on Derek’s jaw, of feeling the strong muscles of his shoulders, of seeing his face and simply hearing his voice, refreshing the simple memory of him, turn to ash and dust and crumble away.

 _Really, this is pathetic,_ Stiles thinks to himself. _You’ll see him again. It’s only a few days._

“Stiles.” His father calls. “You have a summons.”

Stiles pops his head outside his door. “What? Where?”

“To the castle. It’s from Derek.” His father scans the paper. “Says come immediately.”

Stiles has never moved so fast in his life. He scrambles up, limbs flailing and arms waving as he crashes into his wardrobe and starts throwing clothes out.

“I don’t think Derek means it literally!” His father chuckles. “He’s been asking every day this past week.”

Stiles is already racing past him when John catches his arm.

“What changed your mind?” He frowns, taking in Stiles’ appearance – his half-buttoned tunic, hastily brushed hair.

Stiles simply grins. “Nothing.” He says, and then he’s out the door.

 

*

_29th March 1809_

His heart starts to beat again the nearer he grows to the castle, carriage drawing closer and closer until he’s jumping out, impatient to finally, _finally_ be with him.

Derek is waiting at the gates.

Stiles feels his face heat, and can’t contain the grin that spreads across his face at the sight of him.

Derek seems to be in a similar position – his face splitting wide, eyes crinkling.

“I had convinced myself it was a dream.” Derek starts when Stiles pauses to a halt stiltedly in front of him, unsure of what to do.

Stiles swallows his beam, shakes his head. “Not unless – I’m having wonderful dreams all of a sudden.”

Derek’s ears go wonderfully pink. “Stiles.” He starts, but seemingly at a loss, doesn’t continue. He rouses himself, shakes his head.

“I want to hear all about Poland.” He starts, turning on his heel. Stiles follows blindly, squashing down on his hopes of touching Derek and telling himself that he’ll be happy to just spend time with him.

“Of course.” Stiles answers, and panics at the slightly high, breathy tone of his voice. _It isn’t obvious, is it? Surely not?_

“I want to know everything you did, and everywhere you went.” Derek is still saying, but he’s taking the stairs towards the library, and as soon as the large oak doors fall closed, he’s pressing Stiles up along the shelves.

“I’m sorry.” Derek rushes, pressing his nose into Stiles’ neck and inhaling deep. “I’m not sure I can hold back.”

Stiles simply clings to him, his hands coming up to bury in Derek’s hair, and he relishes the small noise it pulls from him.

“I can’t – Stiles, I’m not very good at resisting you.” Derek’s voice has deepened into a rough, thick drawl, and Stiles shudders against him.

“Then don’t.” He whispers.

“The things I want to do.” Derek begins, breathless. “Places I want to touch – they’re not even appropriate for the delicate ears of the public.”

“Then tell me.” Stiles replies, his chest heaving with his beating heart.

“I fear you’ll be frightened by the desires I have.” Derek murmurs into his throat, a soft kiss being pressed there.

Stiles pulls back to lay a hand on Derek’s chest, presses himself along Derek's front. “Then you should know I feel the same, my dear King.”

“I want you.” Derek rasps. “I've wanted you from the moment I first saw you, more than mortal men have ever wanted.”

Stiles feels his heart thud against his ribcage at Derek’s words, but he meets his gaze.

“You have me.” Stiles tells him.

Derek’s eyes seem to bore into his, and then Stiles feels as if he sees a red, clouded tinge bleed into his iris, before it’s blinked away, and Derek is running hands down his sides and around his thighs, hoisting him up against the shelves.

Stiles gasps, gripping Derek’s shoulder and wrapping legs around his waist as Derek’s mouth comes down on his, hard and fast and greedy, nipping at his lips and licking into his mouth.

Those words seemed to have been the thing to cut all of Derek’s strings loose, as he’s not holding back anymore – _not that I mind_ , he thinks dizzily, his breath hitching as Derek puts a leg in-between Stiles’ own and grinds down against him.

Stiles parts from the kiss to gasp, a broken moan escaping his throat, and Derek shakes against him, shoving his face into Stiles’ neck and breathing deep.

“Derek.” Stiles murmurs, smoothing a hand down his back to soothe the tremors. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want –”

“I don’t _want_ –” Derek chokes, hands bunching in the fabric of his tunic. “Stiles, I – I want you too much.”

Stiles chuckles, a breathless exhale. “Is that such a bad thing?”

Derek shakes his head again, panting. Stiles brings his hands up, curls his fingers around Derek’s jaw and cups his face.

“Derek.” Stiles murmurs. “You shouldn’t be scared.”

Derek leans into him, noses touching, and Stiles grins, his heart hammering into his ribcage. Feeling bold, he kisses the jut of Derek’s jawline, the sharp angle he had been imagining.

Derek’s quick inhale is all the boost Stiles needs to trail his mouth down, breathing hotly on the skin of Derek’s neck and peppering kisses along.

Derek tightens his hold on Stiles’ legs, trembling, and a soft growl escapes his lips, rumbling in his chest and vibrating his throat.

Stiles huffs a chuckle, almost wanting to ask how he managed to do that, when he flicks his tongue out and Derek’s breath hitches, hands shaking where they grip into the meat of Stiles’ thigh.

“Stiles –” Derek starts, voice deep and gravelly, but Stiles simply nuzzles his face into Derek’s throat and nips, worrying skin between his teeth and sucking it into his mouth.

Two things happen at once.

First; Derek growls, deep and rumbling and unmistakeable.

The second, is that Stiles pulls away in surprise to find red eyes gazing back at him, along with a pair of elongated, sharp incisors.

Stiles gasps, jerking away and scrambling back, and Derek’s eyes – the _creature’s_ eyes widen as he abruptly releases Stiles.

“What –” Stiles is backed up against the shelves, staring in disbelief. “What –”

“Stiles.” It’s Derek’s voice, but his eyes are still glowing red, and his teeth are sharp and resting against his bottom lip. “I can explain –”

Stiles feels as if he’s slowly sinking into shock, as he looks at this animal – an animal that’s also Derek, because Derek is – he’s some creature, some supernatural thing –

“it’s not what it looks like.” Derek tries, expression agonised, eyes bright and chest heaving. “I was – I was going to tell you, I’m not a monster, I’m a –”

“Werewolf.” Stiles finishes, dumbfounded.

Derek flinches, as if the word hurts him, his eyes wet and fevered. “I – Stiles, please let me explain, I understand if you never want to see me again but if you just let me explain –”

“It was you.” Stiles states, suddenly.

Derek freezes, mouth falling open. “What?” He asks.

“It was you.” Stiles repeats, stepping closer to peer into Derek’s face, to scrutinise those eyes. “In the woods that night.”

Derek averts his gaze, shame written over his face. “I had to make sure you were safe.”

Stiles laughs, so sudden and sharp that Derek whips his head up.

“I can’t believe it.” He says, and lifts a hand to touch the tips of his fingers to Derek’s curved ear. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I knew I hadn’t imagined it.”

Derek is staring at him. “You – aren’t you repulsed?” His voice is barely a whisper, a bare crack in the space between them.

Stiles looks at him. He looks at Derek, fully in the eye. “You saved my life.” He says.

Derek continues to stare. “But – Stiles, I’m a _monster_ –”

“Have you ever hurt anymore?” Stiles asks.

Derek goes ashen, eyes wide. _“Never –”_

“Then you’re not a monster.” Stiles states simply, and traces the line of Derek’s jaw wondrously, fingers bumping the sharp teeth that protrude.

Derek blinks, and then water is standing in his eyes. “You mean it?”

Stiles brushes his thumb over Derek’s bottom lip, and watches as Derek shivers at the touch. “Yes.” He whispers.

Derek rushes forward, all but crashing into him as he presses along the length of his body. “I thought – I was sure you wouldn’t want me –” he says as they tumble back into the shelves.

“You’re still Derek.” Stiles murmurs. “My Derek.”

Derek lifts his gaze, still glowing.

“What – what brought it on?” Stiles asks, genuinely curious, until a flush spreads its way across Derek’s cheeks.

“I.” He starts, and clears his throat. “Sometimes my – instincts can come out, when I’m – aroused.” He admits gruffly.

Stiles feels himself grin wickedly, and presses their hips together, relishing in the soft, punched huff it brings out of Derek.

“Like this?” He asks, his own voice deepening, and Derek closes his eyes.

“I – yes.” He pants. “I’m – Stiles.” He seems incapable of speech, stuttering out half-formed sentences.

Stiles runs a hand down, along Derek’s waist to sit at the small of his back, pulling him in. “This?” He murmurs, and grinds against the bulge he finds, pressing insistently against his groin.

Derek simply nods, head tipping back, lips parting. His legs are trembling, but the thick muscles of his thighs spread, eager.

Stiles feels heat coil, low and dark in his stomach, as he pushes back. Suddenly he needs his hands on Derek, he needs to feel bare, warm skin, and he rucks up Derek’s tunic to the smooth expanse of his back.

Derek gasps at Stiles’ hands on him, running all over, and his head bows, hair falling over his forehead.

Stiles trails fingers along Derek’s spine as he turns his head to kiss along the exposed length of Derek’s throat, nipping gently.

“Ah, _ah_ – Stiles.” Derek rasps, and the hands that are balled at his sides unfurl to grip Stiles; to grasp Stiles’ sides and rest on his hipbones.

Stiles grins against his neck, pressing down harder, letting Derek feel his own answering arousal. Derek gasps, and then the hands at his waist are sliding further down, cupping Stiles’ backside and squeezing.

Stiles gasps his laughter at the strange, foreign feeling, even as his gut tightens, sparks of pleasure racing up his spine as he shudders in Derek’s arms, Derek’s fingers gripping into the fleshiness and spreading his cheeks apart.

“I’ve wanted to do this.” Derek tells him darkly, as for some reason, coupled with the sensation of hot, broad palms on his arse, Stiles clenches his jaw on a moan that wants to escape.

“Wanted you so long.” Derek continues, and now he’s nuzzling into Stiles’ neck, one hand moving away from Stiles’ backside to run up his shirt, undo the laces of his tunic and slide underneath. Stiles feels himself trembling as that rough hand spreads along his ribs, moving higher and higher to brush the pad of a thumb over his nipple.

“Derek –” Stiles manages, but then Derek is pressing him harder to the shelves, lifting his legs up to wrap them around his waist and run two hands underneath his shirt.

“Need to feel.” He rushes, and then Stiles feels a hand at his breeches, untying clumsily as his trousers fall and fingers wrap around him.

 _“Ah!”_ Stiles shouts at the first touch. The rough pad of a thumb strokes over the head of his erection, gently rubbing back and forth.

“Derek.” Stiles gasps, gripping hands into his hair and rocking upwards to meet the touch.

“Shh, it’s alright.” Derek murmurs, voice almost unrecognisable; gravelly and thick. “I’ve got you.”

Stiles feels his legs shaking, his wetness leaking from the head the longer Derek explores, his other hand coming down to massage Stiles’ balls and stroke along the length.

“I won’t – last.” He gasps. “Derek – _please.”_ His voice breaks embarrassingly, high and reedy.

Derek’s mouth is trailing hot, wet kisses along his neck, sucking at the skin and nibbling as he feels Stiles fall apart in his hands.

“I –” Stiles tries to warn, but with one last rub over his sensitive tip, he’s releasing - mouth falling open with no sound as ecstasy rushes through his whole body, white noise filling his mind and his eyes rolling backwards.

“That’s it, let me hear.” Derek is murmuring, stroking him through it, but then Stiles comes to his senses, slowing coming down from the high to notice a flush riding high on Derek's cheeks, his eyes glazed over and clouded, expression hungry.

Stiles pushes at Derek’s hands in order to feel Derek for himself, desperate to feel Derek the way Derek has felt him.

Derek bucks up, a groan falling from his lips as Stiles slides a hand underneath his breeches and finally, _finally feels him._

He’s a stiff, hot weight in Stiles’ hand, pre-cum dribbling from his head, from the ruddy, swollen tip.

Stiles feels his mouth dry and licks his lips, pulling the foreskin back to let more glistening liquid dribble down his length. Derek is shaking, his hands tight fists now and gripping Stiles’ ass as Stiles strokes a hand, slow, from the tip to the base.

Derek groans, long and low, and Stiles brings a hand up to suck a thumb into his mouth and taste for himself.

That was apparently the wrong thing to do. Derek makes a high whine in the back of throat and then his hips are thrusting up as he comes with a cry, eyes closed, all the way up his shirt in thick, ropy spurts.

He’s breathing heavy, sweat along his brow, and Stiles leans against him grinning.

“Looks like we ruined this.” He murmurs, fisting a hand in Derek’s soiled front.

“I’ve got a hundred others.” Derek pants, still catching his breath.

Stiles chuckles, but finds himself still thrumming with energy, with excitement to do it all again.

“I wanted to taste you.” He confesses into Derek’s jaw. “All of you.”

Derek groans. “Next time.” He promises.

“In … the next few minutes?” Stiles asks hopefully, bringing bright eyes up to Derek’s face.

Derek looks at him. “We’ll need a bed.” He decides, and hefts Stiles up.

*

Eventually, things begin to settle.

They’re subtle in their encounters. Derek and he share glances at balls and banquets, secretive looks. Laura winks at him during one, and Stiles stares, flabbergasted, but Derek merely laughs and shoves her jovially.

He had already told Laura and Cora about his feelings for Stiles. They knew all along. 

Stiles finds he can't be angry.

They touch each other as they pass in places.

Derek trails his fingers across the back of Stiles’ hand. He’ll greet Stiles with a smile and a palm brushing the small of his back. He’ll dust away dirt and straightens imperfections on Stiles’ doublet. He’ll frown and run a hand through Stiles' cropped hair, claiming it was in disarray. 

These moments cause Stiles to flail and flush, jerk away as colour heats his cheeks. Derek seems to make a game of it, eyes glinting every time. Stiles doesn’t dare try to reciprocate, in fear he'll be too obvious. 

It carries on for some time, this secrecy, this play, until Stiles decides.

He has to tell his parents.

 

*

 

_7th September 1809_

“What?” His mother breathes, eyes growing wide. “You and King Hale –”

“I know it must come as a shock.” Stiles begins, holding both hands out. 

“I thought – I thought you were _friends_ –” his father stutters.

Stiles nods. "We are! That we _are_ , father, but I love him –”

John makes a wordless noise of outrage. 

“And _he_ loves me!” Stiles shouts, desperate. “He doesn't wish to wed some woman of high society, he wants _me_ –”

“Please, Stiles, you’re too influenced, you can't possibly imagine that you could ever be together!” His mother cries. 

"We can!" Stiles cries, eyes burning. "And we will, or I'll elope!" 

"With the _KING?"_ His father shouts. "How on earth do you expect to do that? He needs to stay _here_ , Stiles, you've gone mad? Derek will need a _queen,_ not a boy!" 

“I am not a boy!” Stiles defends, hot anger burning his face. "I am a free human being with an independent will!”

 _“Enough!”_ John lays his hands down hard on the table. “There will be no more talk of this nonsense! You will go to your room and forget about this!”

“John, please.” His mother tries.

"You can’t make me!" In his anger, tears prick his eyes, strain his voice. "I'll run away with him tonight!" 

"You'll do no such thing, dear _God_ , it's one thing to want to marry a _man_ , another to want the King! It could never be, Stiles, Derek is as foolish as you to think otherwise! He must carry on his lineage, he will need a woman to give him a heir! A wife!" 

Stiles feels tears fall cold to his cheeks. “You don't understand.” His voice is hoarse, quiet. 

“John, come now.” His mother says gently. 

“I will not!” His father continues. “Not until I get through to our son that this idea can never be!”

Stiles stands sharply, the chair scraping harsh on the floor. He throws his napkin down, ignoring his mother’s plea of _‘Stiles’_ , and storms the house, down the hallways and to his room.

As soon as the door closes, Stiles collapses into his bed.

He cries like he's never cried before, at his foolishness, his own _naivety_. He's breathless by the end, rocking in silent sobs as he gasps, chest aching and eyes burning.

Suddenly, arms are wrapping around him; a warmth is enveloping him. Stiles jerks, startled, and finds Derek in the embrace, his scent clouding around Stiles, warmth surrounding him.

"What –” he gasps, shocked.

“Shh, shh.” Derek murmurs, pressing him close. “Hush.”

Stiles turns fully and wraps his own arms around Derek tight, and they stay that way for a moment.

"Your parents do not approve." Derek says deeply.

Stiles is silent. He takes a breath, and says, “we cannot be.”

Derek's arms tighten. “I'll not lose you, Stiles. Never.”

Stiles glances up, blinking wetly.

“Derek.” He begins gently.

_He will need a queen, not a boy. He will have to carry on his lineage._

Stiles grits his teeth, clenches his jaw, and looks away. “We can’t be. It was foolish to think so.”

Derek is shaking his head. “Stiles –”

“It’s alright.” Stiles smiles, although it feels tight on his face. “I understand.” He glances away, averts his eyes down. “I – I free you, Derek.” He says, voice choked.

Derek’s grip tightens. “I will _never_ be free.” He states, and shakes Stiles’ shoulders. “Don’t you understand that? _Never.”_

Stiles wants to argue; he wants to release himself from Derek’s hold, to escape and clear his mind. But those words leave him drained, and Stiles finds himself sagging into Derek, pressing his face into Derek’s chest and burying his nose there, into the familiar smell of his skin.

Derek lifts his head to meet his gaze, holds his chin with a knuckle. "Let me talk to them." He murmurs.

Stiles looks up. Then he nods.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised an update every week, and I shall deliver! This story is actually complete, but I think posting once a week is more manageable, because I'm also currently trying to update all my other abandoned fics

_5th July 1810_

The sun is blistering as he wakes, coming through the tapestry draped over the bed. Stiles wakes before Derek, as usual, and blinks as his eyes become accustomed.

He grins, rolls over and slides a hand over Derek’s bare back, walking his fingers up and down lightly, simply touching. 

Derek stirs, and pulls his head out from underneath his pillow.

“Hello, your Grace.” Stiles greets.

“Mph.” Derek grunts. Stiles grins. He leans down and starts kissing a trail across his shoulder blades.

“We have a long day ahead of us. The feast today. My parents arriving.” He mumbles against skin.

Derek is oblivious for a few seconds before bolting upright. “Your parents are coming?”

“Yes.” Stiles grins.

“To the palace?”

“Yes.”

“Stiles! I need to get ready!” He starts rustling around in bed.

Stiles chuckles. “This evening. They’re coming this evening.”

Derek stops. “Ah.” And flops back down into bed. Stiles laughs.

“Why do you get so anxious when my parents come to visit?”

Derek shrugs shyly. “I just want to make a good impression.”

“They’ve met you before.”

“I know.” He murmurs. Stiles collapses on top of him and buries his face between his shoulders.

“Is it because you're trying to secure your mates affections?”

“You know.” Derek turns. “For the severity of my condition, you seem to take an abundant amount of _glee_ in teasing me for it.”

 “Come now, Derek, don’t growl. It’s uncivilised.”

“I'll show you uncivilised.” Derek says and catches Stiles around the waist, snapping his jaws on Stiles’ skin in a feint of biting.

Stiles gasps and laughs, wriggling away and thrashing in Derek’s grip. 

“Do you surrender?” Derek asks.

“Never!” Stiles thrusts a fist in the air. Derek continues his ticklish attack.

 

*

_6th August 1809_

“How are you feeling?”

Stiles turns his head to see Derek at the doorway. He huffs a smile and Derek comes up quickly to his bedside. He places a cool hand over Stiles forehead.

“Your fever’s broken.” He sighs, relieved.

Stiles tries to nod, but his neck is stiff and his head is heavy. He croaks.

“Shhh.” Derek murmurs. “It’s alright. I'm here.” He repeats after a while. “I’m here.” Suddenly his pain dulls and recedes, enough for him to see clearly. 

“Derek.” He gasps, finally lucid.

“Shhh.”

“What time is it?” He whispers.

“Just after seven. Are you hungry?”

Stiles grimaces. 

“Thirsty?”

“Are mother and father here? Can I see them?” Stiles tries to sit up.

“Of course.” Derek murmurs. “Lie back, you need to rest. I'll send someone for them.”

He leaves the room shortly, and returns just as quick. He grasps Stiles’ sweaty hand. 

“What have I missed?” Stiles manages.

“A plague.” Derek answers deeply.

Stiles chuckles. Derek starts stroking his hair. “I’ve missed you.” He counters.

Stiles hums. He lifts a limp hand and trails his knuckles across Derek’s cheek. “Not. Rid of me so easy.”

“Just get better.” Derek says fiercely.

Stiles laughs throatily. “Trying.”

“Oh, sweetheart." His mother’s soft voice floats to him. He smiles as she rushes over and touches his face. His father appears and squeezes his shoulder.

“Thank you, Derek, for everything you've done for Stiles. We weren't sure – but without your help.” His mother tears up. His dad nods, expression pensive.

Stiles turns confused eyes on Derek. Derek makes a dismissive gesture at his expression and answers, “it was all I could do.”

Stiles narrows his eyes in a universal, _‘we will discuss later’_ , and Derek simply rolls his eyes fondly, pressing his hand harder.

*

_24 th March 1811_

Derek introduces him to the Kingdom as his consort.

The people are shocked, outraged, openly judgemental in shouts and cries, and then primly disapproving in whispers and murmurs.

But after a year, Derek doesn’t have to introduce Stiles at all anymore.

Acceptance takes a long time, but Derek is insistent. There’s nothing anyone can do or say to persuade him. The court officials, his advisors and even his sisters can’t sway him. Every argument against the union is swiftly shut down.

Derek offers that Laura or Cora’s children will carry on the linage, and that there could be no better heir. He talks with Stiles’ parents, as he’d promised, and Stiles doesn’t join them, but once they all come out, there’s a softness to his father’s eyes, a smile on his mother’s face.

Stiles had been flabbergasted, but Derek simply ducked his head, suspiciously pink-cheeked.

And so, Stiles integrates himself into the palace. He resides in Derek’s chambers, grows friendly with the knights, grows to love Derek’s family as his own. He talks to the locals and laughs with their children. He greets the shop owners. He jokes with people. He tries.

He flops down into bed.

“You work too much.” Derek informs him sleepily.

“Mmm.” Stiles murmurs and burrows into Derek’s side, nose smashed into the pillow. He starts to drift.

“Stiles, you need to take your clothes off.”

“Not tonight dear.” He answers, blindly.

Derek chuckles. “I mean it, you’ll wake up hot and sweaty and uncomfortable.”

Stiles yanks at the material, and then promptly gives up. Derek huffs humorously and hefts him up.

“Right.” He states.                  

 _"Nooooh."_ He moans. Derek starts stripping him, taking off his books and unfastening his tunic. He stops, his hands stilling suddenly.

“Have you been training with the knights?” Derek asks.

Stiles flushes. “Not to my, uh, recollection.”

“Well. You’ve been training at something.” Derek informs him significantly.

Stiles blushes again. He does train, sometimes, in order to maintain his – albeit lanky – physique. 

But they haven’t had much time to be intimate, with Derek’s work in the Kingdom on legislation, and Stiles taking up his other responsibilities in any way or shape he can. 

“Well. I might need to defend myself one day, Derek.” He tries, soft.

“No one will get within ten feet of you, I assure you.” Derek states, as if it’s fact.

Stiles smirks. “Ah yes. Your beastly abilities to the rescue.”

Derek gives him a deadpan expression. He bursts out laughing.

“Why do you always find it so funny?”

“Because you’re always so unamused. And you kept it from me for so long, don't I deserve some leeway?”

Derek grumbles and growls but doesn’t argue.

“I’m just trying to express that I am okay with it.” Stiles says. “You are my Derek and nothing will change that. Not even if you were ten feet tall or two inches small.”

Derek gives him a soft, private smile, but lifts up the tunic the rest of the way so Stiles doesn't see much of it.

 

*

_11 th June 1811_

“Once more unto the breech, dear friends! And we shall rein all the lands, we shall rein the kingdoms, shall perch upon their thrones–”

They round the corner running and stop.

A maid stands with a bundle of blankets, one hand on her hip as she looks at Derek, carrying Stiles on his back, wielding a sword and wearing Derek’s ceremonial crown.

“Boys.” She states. “Two hours. _Two._ Hours.”

Stiles and Derek are stock-still as she walks away, and when she turns the corner, erupt into fits of giggles, running the other way. 

 

*

Stiles is getting ready. He's been physically separated from Derek, laughingly holding his arms out as the knights took him one way and Laura and Cora dragged Derek another. 

He smiles as he settles into his suit coat, fastening his tie. His parents are coming for their weekly visit, and Derek is always playful and childish until they come and then he must act as kingly as possible.

It amuses and endears him in equal measures.

He and Derek have known each other for two years now, and he’s never been so ecstatically happy. Although despite what some may believe, they don’t live a fairy tale.

They argue. And not infrequently, no, almost daily. The most recent just yesterday, being for the fact that Derek seems to take the whole bed for himself. Sometimes Stiles rambles, sometimes Derek doesn’t listen, sometimes Stiles is insecure and lashes out, sometimes Derek is possessive when not warranted and is terribly moody and unsociable.

His list may go on.

And yet, an hour after any argument, they always find one another. The tedious disagreements don’t diminish the reward of making up, the pleasure of conversation, the laughter in a joke shared, the pure love Stiles feels seeing Derek every day.

Happiness is an odd emotion. When one has achieved it, it seems to accompany the feeling of invincibility.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another update! I'm thinking Fridays will be the best day to update. On another note, things are finally heating up!

_11 th June 1811_

There’s a knock on the door as Stiles is getting dressed to meet his parents, a quick, sharp thing. He goes to answer, but finds the hallway empty. 

“Hello?” He asks. There’s no reply. He wants to ignore it, and yet something inside him tells him to investigate.

He rounds the corner. 

“Derek?” Stiles asks, not because he believes it’s him, but because to say his name is somehow calming.

There’s the sound of rustling, somebody moving. He frowns, and quickens his strides. He turns around the other hallway.

Stiles is being pressed against somebody, his mouth covered with a hand. 

He immediately goes to bite that hand, his elbow coming up to drive into the person’s sternum, his training with the knights coming back easily, until they say, “Make one move and King Hale is dead.”

He freezes. The hand comes away.

Stiles is silent. 

“Good. Walk calmly with me outside.”

He complies, leading her to a back way that enters out into the gardens, the woods some way away.

Once they’ve walked enough into the trees, he stops. _His captor_ , Stiles’ mind supplies hysterically, faces him.

The woman has her arms crossed, wild blonde hair tumbling around her, riding boots high on her knees.

He breathes, his body utterly still.

“What do you want?” He asks slowly.

She smiles. She turns around, and points to the sky. He looks, frowning.

“Do you see the man in the tower, with the bow and arrow?” She asks.

Stiles redirects his gaze. He does.

“Now. Not to alarm you, but that man has the best aim I've ever seen. Do you see that open window?”

Stiles glances in the other direction. He does. Then he sees Derek, getting dressed inside. His heart freezes, his muscles locking in shock.

“I can cause a signal that will make my friend over there shoot the King directly through the skull, penetrate the brain and kill him.”

“No.” His mouth utters nonsensically, quite without his command. He breaks away from his daze, and rushes forward, taking her shoulders, gripping her. “No, please no, have mercy, please, I beg, I beg –”

The woman disentangles herself from him, but Stiles throws himself to his knees, holding his clasped hands up to her.

“I beg you have mercy, I’ll grant you anything, anything –”

“Hush.” She says in annoyance.

He stands quickly, staring at her in shock.

Then he starts running. 

“Derek!” He shouts up, towards the castle, “De –”, and then hits a solid wall.

Stiles doubles over, holding his chest, gasping and winded. The woman comes over. 

“He can’t hear you.” She informs him. 

Stiles ambles forward, but he’s met with resistance. He holds a hand up to thin air; he finds an immovable barrier. 

“He can’t see you. He can’t smell you, he can’t even feel you. He can’t save you.” She comes closer, and then tilts her head. “Oh wait. I didn’t want to tell you that, I wanted you to believe he didn't care. Oh, no matter.” She waves a hand.

He glances up to her, still pushing against the blockade. He pushes harder, breathes coming fast in panic now.

The woman laughs delightedly. “It isn't going to go away.”

“Why?” He pants.

“Because I am a witch, and this is the work of witchcraft.” She waves a hand carelessly.

“Why ... are you doing … this?”

“Oh sweetheart. Because they did the same to me.”

“What?” He leans against the wall.

“Werewolves.” She spits.

Stiles glances sideways to her.

“Oh yes, I’m quite aware. Quite aware of them. You see, young Stiles Stilinski, I’m a huntress. I hunt creatures that pose a threat to society. My parents taught me to hunt – my childhood was filled with stories of monsters. Like you, I feel I have a duty, to protect the people.”

“You sound so noble.” Stiles gasps.

She laughs, tipping her long hair backwards. “I suppose I do. And for a time, I would only hunt those that hurt others. But two weeks past my father was killed in the woods by a rouge werewolf.”

“And you believe it to be Derek.” Stiles concludes.

“Oh, I know it wasn’t Derek. I hunted the wolf down myself. But now after the incident, I’ve taken a rather different approach.” She grins. “All werewolves need to be exterminated." 

Stiles is still for a moment. This is a grieving woman, embittered by her loss, and is now searching for somebody to blame this tragedy upon. She’s unstable, he sees it in her frayed expression, her jerky movements.

But not unable to be reasoned with.

“Alright.” Stiles says.

She smiles. “I hear the change in your tone. Do you think you know my reasons? You’ll never change my mind. No, I’ve decided.” She says. “I’ll take you away, to a place that nobody can ever find you, and Derek will go mad with grief. This is how I will kill him.”

“Why this way?” Stiles asks, calmly detached.

“Because to outright kill the King is too overt. This needs to be subtle. And I think this is a sweeter form of revenge.” She grins, teeth sharp. “Death is too painless. Too temporary.”

“I see.” He says, wildly plotting, thinking of how to draw attention to them, how to somehow escape –

“Now.” She begins. “I’m sorry to interrupt your musings on how to try and reason with me –  that would have been quite fun. But.” She clicks her fingers, and darkness enfolds him.

 

*

 * 

When he wakes, he’s on sand. The sun beats down on his skin, a blinding light. He blinks, glancing around.

The stretch of water is for miles and miles.

 

*

_DAY 1_

Stiles panics. 

He spends the full day on the shore, hyperventilating at odd intervals. He stays there, hoping and praying someone will come. When night begins to fall, he curls around himself. 

He has no idea where he is, no idea how he got here, and no idea how to get back. 

“Help!” He tries.

There’s no answer, the sound lost to the wind.

 

*

_DAY 2_

The second day Stiles wakes, he almost expects to wake up in bed, alongside Derek, and have this all be a dream – some surreal, hyper-realistic nightmare. 

His eyes are cracked and sore when he pries them open, and the sun pierces through. His hands tremble as he feels along the familiar sand. 

“Oh God.” Stiles croaks.

He stands, heart hammering, breaths uneven in his chest.

Then he collapses to the ground and weeps.

 

*

_DAY 3_

He goes to investigate.

He's on some kind of island. Stiles makes his way into the thick forest of palm trees, stepping warily. 

There’s fruit. He examines it with trepidation, but the gnaw of hunger gives way. The taste is bitter, hard: unripe. 

He makes himself eat it all. 

He washes by the shore, airing his clothes and scrubbing his skin with bare hands. 

Stiles explores again. He walks for so long his feet begin to ache. There's nothing but trees and sand. 

There’s nothing on this island.


	8. Chapter 8

_DAY 10_

It’s a week before he finds it. 

Amongst the rocky, rough terrain, the jagged edges and the gnarled vines, is a cave.

Stiles finds solstice from the harsh sun, already burning his skin and causing it to blister, and sleeps there.

His feet ache, the skin of his soles rough and brown with walking. He feels as if he’s explored every inch of this deserted place.

Time comes and goes on the island. Stiles has been scratching the days into the bark of a tree, but some irrational fear has gripped him that he's missed one – that he wasn’t paying attention when the sun rose and fell away one day, that he hasn’t been keeping count.

He writes the days still, but he never shakes the feeling that he’s losing time. That everything is speeding up somehow – the seconds are passing quicker than the last, that every day adds another one onto it.

He sees his reflection in the water at the shore. It’s different to how he remembers it. He raises a shaky hand and touches his cheek. His hair is longer, his features sharpened.

Stiles barely recognises himself.

Finding it really shouldn’t have been as simple as it is, but it is.

It’s buried, but only barely. Stiles knows every inch of sand that covers the island, is personally acquainted with every palm tree, every sharp rock.

He’s lying against one of the trunks, when he feels something hard digging into his side. He fumbles along the sand, fingers clumsy, and meets the solid edge of – _something._

Stiles sits, turning around. He frowns. There’s something buried underneath the sand.

He claws at the ground weakly, too tired to fully try. But it’s coming away easily, sand unravelling, and then the distinct shape of a box is uncovered.

It’s a large box, a wooden chest. And it’s not locked, it’s not even secured.

The lid lifts easily.

Inside, it’s pure gold. Simply put – treasure. There are no fine jewels or caskets, no rubies or sapphires. All that’s inside is gold – pieces of pure gold, small and large, uneven and unrefined.

Stiles stares. Has it been washed up? Of placed here with the sole intention of hiding it?

He’s never seen so much treasure. His eyes burn the longer he stares, unblinking. He puts his hand inside, touching the cold surface of the pieces. He buries both hands into the chest, searching for the bottom. And he finds it, after some time of elbow-deep digging. But it’s there. It’s solid, and real.

Stiles pulls his hands out. He sags against the side, already worn out.

He starts to laugh. At first, it’s a soft huff at the irony. And then it’s coming again, and he’s laughing, a loud bark of sound. He feels his eyes water and then he’s crying, and then laughing, then laughing and crying.

 

*

_DAY 17_

The hallucinations start – two weeks? Three weeks? _A month? How long has it been?_

Stiles has lost count. He thinks it’s been that long, but again – the sound of the waves, the breeze of the wind, everything here makes you forget. It’s impossible to keep track.

He dreams that he’s home, with his parents, and that Derek walks in and asks him where he’s been. Stiles answers he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter. _It doesn’t matter_ , Derek says _. You’re here now._

Stiles opens his eyes slowly.

Derek is smiling.

“Derek?” Stiles whispers. Derek doesn’t say anything, still smiling as he lies beside Stiles on the sand.

“De –” Stiles reaches out a hand to touch, but his fingers slip through air.

In a blink, there’s nothing. As if there hadn’t been anything there in the first place, all that lies in front of Stiles is empty sand.

 

*

_DAY 34_

After that, they’re more frequent.

They come and go, indistinct. At first, Stiles thinks that Derek is calling out to him at the shore. Calling out Stiles' name, with his voice, his distinctive baritone.

Stiles is deep in the woods searching for food, but he comes rushing, bursting out. “I’m here!” He shouts. “I’m here, wait!”

Stiles whips his head around at the empty clearing.

It takes him a long time to realise he was imagining it.

 

*

_DAY 47_

Stiles doesn’t know when, but one day, he wakes, and he blinks in the scene in front of him – the vast, vacant space, and he thinks _, I will see him again._

_I will see Derek again. I’ll survive, I’ll do it, and I will see him._

As soon as the thought appears, it doesn’t leave. It sits in his chest, a burning ember of hope. He won’t let his captor win, he isn’t going to perish here.

He’ll escape.

*

_DAY 70_

When they come, Stiles doesn’t let himself believe it.

He watches them pull up, tie their sailboat to the branch of a tree near the rocks, and climb onto the shore.

Stiles looks on from his hidden position in the cave. He digs his nails so hard into his thighs that they leave indents, scrubs at his eyes until they hurt. He waits there, unseen, until he fully believes it.

Three women – one with short cropped hair, another with flowing auburn tied at the nape, and the third with some kind of weapon strapped to her back, her hair tied similarly.

He watches them.

They seem to be searching for something. As soon as he realises what it is, he follows them.

Stiles doesn’t know if he’s kept it hidden it or not. He can’t even remember. He left it exactly where it was, uncaring.

But he’ll give them it all. He won’t take a piece, if they’ll just take him home.

He’s behind a tree when he realises he’s lost sight of one, and only notices too late, when there’s a sharp blade against his throat.

Stiles tenses, his body stiffening all over, and turns his head

“Who are you?” The woman with red hair asks, pressing a knife into his skin. “Why are you following us?”

Stiles swallows against the sharp edge. “I – I know what you’re looking for.”

His voice is almost unrecognisable, utterly foreign to him – deep and gravelly with misuse.

Her eyebrows raise, a slight tick. “You do?”

Stiles clears his throat. “I’ve been stranded on this island.” He begins. “I have no use for the treasure, and I can promise on my life I’ll hand it over, if you take me home.”

“You’ve been stranded?” She asks, frowning. “For how long?”

Stiles sees the other women behind her, watching intently.

“I – I don’t know.” He starts. “I – can you tell me the date?”

“It’s the 6th of October.” She states. “1816.”

“The _6 th_ –” Stiles repeats, wildly thinking. “More than a month –”

Then it registers.

“I – I’m sorry.” Stiles blinks. “Did you say _1816?”_

“Yes.” She replies, as if it’s obvious.

Stiles stares at her. “It’s not – that’s not possible.” He stutters, dumbly. “I – it’s 1811.”

The woman studies him. “The year is 1816.” She states.

Stiles feels his body go into shock. He feels his legs give way, feels himself slide down to collapse at the ground. He puts his head in his heads, shaking, fumbling.

Five years.

He’s been here for five years. It’s been five years since he was abducted and brought here.

He’s lived on this island, alone, for _five years._

The women are crowding around him, offering him water, pressing the lid to his mouth and placing hands on his shoulders, but Stiles turns away. He just turns away, eyes squeezed shut, hands over his ears.

It’s not possible. It’s not true. It can’t be.

Five years have passed. Five years of Derek’s life, five years that he’s spent without Stiles.

How can it be? He’s been counting the days, he’s been _reminding_ himself.

Only something always seemed wrong, seemed off. As if he was forgetting, or repeating a day. As if he had written the same words before. The same numbers, again and again. As if time was speeding, passing too quickly for him to catch it.

He looks around wildly to the trees. They’re bare, unmarked.

They’ve washed away his letters. They’ve erased time.

 

*

He learns their names.

The woman with the spear is called Kira, a quiet and humble girl, but capable with a weapon. The girl with cropped hair is Malia, who beams bright when she introduces herself.

Lydia is the one with auburn hair, and gazes at him shrewdly as he tells his story.

Stiles shows them the gold. It’s in the exact same spot where he left it. It holds no meaning, no purpose to him. But their eyes widen as soon as they see, hands coming out to reverently touch.

“It’s yours.” He promises. “I ask for nothing but a safe pass home.”

Lydia’s grip is firm, strong, when she shakes his hand.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s a month’s journey back to the mainland.

Stiles is almost worried that time is still passing too quickly, that every second counts for longer than the last, but as soon as they sail away from the mist of the island, as soon as they’re out of the fog, it’s as if the air is clearer – fresher, sharper.

As if he’s finally waking up.

Stiles inhales greedily – eats the offered food with clumsy fingers, gulps the water as if he’ll never drink again. The women are quiet, simply watching.

The Lost Islands. That’s what they call where he’s lived. Hidden away, secreted, undiscovered. There are tales of magic and sorcery surrounding the island, but it’s never been proven.

Stiles is the first person to come back alive.

He passes out from sheer, overwhelming exhaustion, and almost expects to wake up on sand.

As soon as he blinks his eyes open, he’s crying. Lydia strokes his matted hair silently as he weeps. He presses his face into her shoulder, gripping his shirt.

He’ll see Derek again. He’s free.

 

*

His time spent on the ship passes quickly.

He explains his situation to the women – explains his relationship with Derek, after Malia insinuated late one night that it had been a long time since she’d had a man. Stiles had blushed and stammered his way through an apology at that.

He withholds mentioning that Derek is King Hale, however, for fear of unnecessary commotion.

He’ll repay them once he’s home. For now, he supposes the gold will be enough.

It’s on a particularly cold night that it happens.

Stiles can’t find sleep no matter how hard he tries, although all the other women are soundless. It seems they’ve slept in worse conditions.

But he’s gazing at the endless, vast ocean, dark and silent, when he hears it.

“Stiles! _Stiles!”_

Stiles jerks up, head whipping around to find the source of the noise. There’s no sound, no movement, but he knows that voice as acutely as he knows his own skin.

“I am coming, wait for me!” Stiles shouts over the edge of the boat, hands gripping tight.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, embarrassment sweeps through him.

It’s a hallucination. He’s imagining it.

Stiles glances quickly at the girls, but they’re fast asleep.

Tears sting his eyes abruptly, at his own idiocy. As if it would be possible to hear Derek from this distance, across oceans and lands. As if it’s possible for _Derek_ to hear him.

Still, even as he knows this, when Stiles looks out into the dark water again, he finds his mouth opening, to comfort himself more than anything.

“I love you.” He whispers, breathing the words out into the night air.

 

*

_7th November 1816_

He can see the castle, ahead of him. 

He stops, life having taught him to pause, to wait. He presses his hands to the forest floor, picks up the dirt and the leaves. They're cold, frosted in the winter, wet with rain, the chill biting into his hands. 

This is real.

He stumbles along in his way, adrenalin making him weak, his legs clumsy and numb. His heart hammers in his chest, pounding loud in his ears.

Stiles quiets, glancing around to hear. The night is silent, the castle a glowing beacon of light in the harsh winter air.

The memory of Derek is the only thing Stiles knows: his image murky but still there, his face, his eyes. That memory is all he has. It’s all he's carried with him these years.

He touches the tips of his fingers to the bark of a tree, leaning there for a moment. 

It’s time.

 

*

When Stiles reaches the gates of the castle, he almost thinks it’s a dream. Another hallucination, a visage that’ll disappear along with the rest.

He hears the beat of his heart in his ears, feels it in the back of his throat.

“Please.” He whispers, running fingers along the rusted brass of the iron gates. “Please, please.”

“We don't want none of your kind this time of night.” He hears a voice, sharp and cold.

Stiles jerks, and glances up quickly to see a guard coming his way. “I –” he stutters, swallowing convulsively.

“Go, or I’ll escort you from the premises.”

“Please sir.” He tries, his voice shaking. “I – I know you are a kind man.” He remembers this guard faintly, but the years have worn his memories, even of the one person he thought he would never forget.

“Just some warmth, that is all I ask for.” He pleads.

The guard sighs, long-suffering. “Very well. The King always says to let anyone who passes come in.”

The mention of that name makes Stiles stumble, his heart lurching. 

The man catches him quickly before Stiles crumples to the ground.

“My apologies. King – King Derek?”

The guard nods, supporting him upright. “Yes.” He replies.

“Is he – he is well? He is – healthy?” Stiles stutters.

The man gives him a strange look, frowning. “King Hale is himself.” He answers, obscure. Nausea clenches in Stiles’ gut, a sickening sensation as he dreads what he’ll find.

The guard leads him through the gates and to the doors, but suddenly, they’re opening.

“I heard voices.” Derek states, low and gravelly with disuse.

And he.

His stance is of the same, well-proportioned broadness, his hair the same ebony, his jaw still set in the same angular, sharp line. His features haven’t altered or sunken; not by any six years could his vigour and beauty diminish.

But it’s in his countenance that Stiles notices the difference, a look so brooding and yet so strangely desperate, reminding him of some wronged or injured animal, savage to approach in its grief, its _pain._

No urgency fills him – Stiles has no difficulty restraining himself as he thought he might.

His rapture is kept in check by his pain, his _shock_. He watches, entranced and agonised, as Derek stands, waiting for an explanation.

“Deeply sorry, Your Majesty, this man simply stumbled upon the Kingdom, but I’ll tell him to be on his way."

Stiles waits behind the guard, gazing over his shoulder.

“No, Boyd. Let him stay.” Derek says tiredly. “We are known for our hospitality in the Kingdom.”

Derek looks at him. Stiles holds his breath, waiting, when he notices.

Derek’s eyes.

They’re dull and tired, bloodshot with exhaustion, the skin around them wrinkled and slightly swollen. 

They hold no light of recognition for him.

Stiles goes to open his mouth, to rush forth, to shout, _'Derek, look! Look at me!_ ', but he suddenly shies away, the words dying on his tongue.

Boyd takes him to the chambers. He tells him he can use the water to clean up, and the bed to rest for the night. Breakfast will be delivered to him in the morning. 

Stiles freezes when he sees his reflection. He almost thinks the person an intruder, an imposter in the room, until he realises he's looking at a mirror. The person is his own reflection.

Stiles cries as he looks at himself.

His hair is matted on top of his head, falling down in clumps to his shoulders. His beard is gristly, his face stained with dirt, his clothes hanging off his limp, skeletal frame. 

He gets a knife and chops at it. He hacks and hacks, his hair falling to the floor in heaps, but he doesn’t stop.

He fills the wooden tub with water, strips, and then sinks into it.

It’s _ice_ cold.

He chitters as he washes with a soap bar and a brush, jaw clenched and teeth grinding. The grime and dirt on his body turns the water not just brown, but _black_. Leaves and debris float at the surface, murky with filth.

He scrubs under his nails, the soles of his feet, scrubs his skin until it’s red raw and his scalp is burning. He combs his hair, dries himself off with a sheet. 

Stiles searches for the smaller utensils – silver scissors and a safety razor. He shears his choppy beard and snips his hair into something more presentable, the long strands silken and soft after an hour of brushing, falling around his jaw and masking his features.

He dresses in the spare set of clothes on the bed. Stiles waits until he hears all noise silence in the Kingdom. 

Then he tiptoes out into the corridor, making his practised way to the embellished doors. 

The Kings chambers. 

The door opens with a soft sound. 

He sees Derek’s outline on top of the mattress. The sight of Derek, resting on his side of the bed, overwhelms him. 

Stiles wants nothing more than to collapse into him and sleep. His hands want to touch, he longs to be near, to feel and smell and _taste,_ to join again their years kept apart. He places a hand on the sheet.

There’s a shift, a soft murmur. Derek rolls over in bed.

Stiles is pressed against the wall, startled, on instinct. His heart is beating, his palms sweaty. He goes to move again, but hesitates.

It’s late, the news would be too shocking. 

Derek is tired, asleep, alive and well. That is all. There is time. 

 

*

The King has been given the name, _'The Lone Wolf'._

This title was donned to him when his consort was stolen, nearly six years ago now. 

There was deadly calm in the palace, an eerie silence, as though a post-apocalyptic landscape. 

Nothing was seen of the King for a month. 

After one month, however, there was a strange sound that vibrated the ground, echoed in people’s eardrums, rang throughout the Kingdom. 

It was almost a howl – a wild, animalistic noise.

Parents tell their children it was the cry of King Hale when the news was brought of his consort’s death. Folk like to talk about the beast in the woods, that was proclaimed to have taken Stiles and still lurks among the trees.

But these are fables, and the noise was never explained. 

King Hale retreated to his chambers that evening, where he now spends most of his days in isolation.

Derek is a popular conversational topic, but there are other rumours that circulate also.

He hears that the search was called off after one month as Derek was becoming exasperated with the fruitless hunt, and by then, he had met another.

He hears that the Princess Paige warmed Derek’s bed in an illicit affair. He hears they are about to be wed after years of courting. He hears they are good friends, although one loves more than the other. He hears that Paige and Derek both conducted the kidnapping of his consort, in order for her to become Queen.

He hears she is the only one he allows to see nowadays. He hears that the King adores her. He hears, hears, _hears._

Derek is a gentleman, he’s the King. He is kind, handsome, wealthy, courageous. Humorous and wonderful. His life has continued. He has had distractions. He has moved on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Another weekly update. 
> 
> Now, I can understand people's frustrations with waiting a week, but in all honesty, I have a lot of other work I've been trying to update, one by one, every few days. They're not all written like this one, and so doing that kind of forces me to finish them. Otherwise, they would be left abandoned, and I HATE abandoning work.  
>    
> Also, I've never actually had a systematic-updating-schedule kind of thing like this, and so seeing all the same faces (and names) every week is so sweet and lovely, and makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside! I would upload all in one go, but I do enjoy talking to you guys every week.   
> Anyways! Let the show go on! 
> 
> (FYI, this chapter is heavily inspired by 'The Count Of Monte Cristo', which for those who've watched will know. If not, it's a great movie!)

_2 months later._

They call him a nobleman. He owns the manor just beside the castle, and has gatherings and banquets every evening. 

He invites every lord and lady within the land, and yet, he’s never seen at his own events. 

Rumour has it he’s come into his inheritance. Others say he found the treasures of the far sea. Most say he is a descendant of the Hale family, a bastard child.

 

*

Stiles lives in relative solitude.

He spars with Lydia in the mornings, who is staying with him whilst the others are on business – of which nature Stiles is unsure – and spends most of his time walking the gardens, watching the scenery.

He sleeps on the grass. He writes, and tries his hand at drawing. 

He rarely leaves the house. If he does, he’s brisk. Lydia notices his quietness. The spark that that kept him going during travelling, the fantasy of a reunion, has been shattered to ash and dirt.

He puts Derek on pages upon pages of drawings. He misses him every second of every minute. He clings to any scraps of gossip about the King’s simple comings and goings. They’re the finest literature to him.

Stiles seldom sees him, and still, when the rare occasion presents itself, often from a vantage point at his window overlooking the Kingdom, or in the gardens through the bushes, Stiles is not ashamed to admit he stops, crouches low and watches, hands pressed close, heart in his ears, thrumming.

Derek sometimes practises with his knights, sparring lightly, only feinting attacks. And he’s beautiful, flushed, nodding and moving, breathing, living, _being_. 

Often Derek is alone, sat in contemplation.

Stiles caught him greeting Paige one brisk morning. He enveloped her in a hug in a way he used to do with Stiles – glad, fond. All arms fully embracing.

The pain was like no other, unimaginable and inexplicable. But in his heart Stiles was happy, or felt some form of perverse gladness, that Derek isn’t alone, and has not been alone.

His own parents come to the Kingdom every week, as Stiles soon learns.

They embrace Derek for long moments, and often pull away with wet, fevered eyes. Stiles is too far away to hear what is said. 

He stares at his mother and father, wishing to run to them, longing to be enveloped in their familiar arms, to cry out with his broken heart, but to do so would give away his identity. 

He does not watch anymore, into a life that does not involve him.

 

*

There are organised parties in the estate every evening. The rooms are dusted and polished and arranged, lights are placed, music is played. 

Stiles retires to his chambers, watching quietly as people enter, laughing and waving, dressed and made. He likes the watching. It disrupts the silence. It distracts him from his thoughts.

He overhears people talking about King Derek and his soon to be bride, Princess Paige. 

Stiles hears that she saved him – that she has beautiful chestnut hair and an angelic voice. That she’s a shy person. She’s wise, kind. She’s perfect. She’s loved. She’s _Queen._

Stiles sees her as she arrives one evening, luminescent in the lights, talking about her Derek, smiling and smiling and _smiling_.

Stiles didn’t watch anymore.

He sometimes fantasises about Derek coming to one of his infamous evenings. Guiltily, Stiles can admit, but oh, he imagines it. 

He imagines what he might do when he saw Derek: if Derek might run to him, swing Stiles in his arms, or if Derek might quietly observe him before secreting him away and kissing and kissing and _kissing_ him, broad hands holding him, warm body near, finally united.

The night that he does come, Stiles isn’t expecting it.

He had finally come down to greet his guests, to stop the ceaseless whispers and introduce himself briefly. It was only supposed to be seconds before he retired to his rooms, only meant to be a moment, but he’s chatting with two strangers, and then Stiles sees him.

Stiles’ hands tremble and heat up sweating, his breathing speeds in his chest.

Derek is dressed smartly in noble attire, and is flanked with the other knights, as well as his sisters. There’s Isaac, and Jackson, Danny and even Boyd, all his close friends, and Laura and Cora, his wonderful confidants.

Seeing them is like seeing a life lost to him. Derek looks a little old, a little resigned, as he mingles with other elites. 

Stiles pulls himself up, and breezes past them.

So casually, so nonchalant, that he – focusing on the floor – walks directly into King Hale’s solid chest.

“Excuse me, sir.” He says, looking down and away.

He can't get past. He is forced to look up, only to find Derek staring. 

“Sir. If I could please get past.”

“Who are you? Who is this?” Derek demands, nostrils flaring.

“I am the host of these events.” Stiles states. “Good day."

“Wait! _Wait_.”

People near are turning to look at the commotion, the distress of their King. 

Laura is frowning at Derek, Cora close to his side, a hand on his arm.

Stiles supposes he must seem familiar.

He’s adorned in the finest materials, his hair combed long and tucked behind his ears, falling around his jaw, and his face is clean shaven, but he still looks a little like Stiles, that boy at nineteen, with hair shorn and smile wide.

Derek is still staring. His breath is coming quick, his chest rising and falling, an agitated flush colouring his cheeks.  

Stiles flits his hand up nervously and gestures in front of him.

“I must be going, please.” He pushes past and keeps his head down. Derek still stands motionless, his back tense.

“I’m sorry.” Derek says quietly. He rouses himself, seems to come to his madness, and repeats again. “I am sorry. You look like someone I know.” He pauses, and forces, “I knew. From a long time ago.”

Stiles turns a little, just a little, and murmurs, “five years isn’t such a long time.”

He darts away and escapes Derek for the rest of the evening. He doesn't once return back downstairs. 

 

*

King Hale is having a feast at the castle to celebrate the new year.

Lydia is curious about the Kingdom, of course, and so Stiles is inevitably enrolled into the event, despite all and every argument against.

He lies low, sipping wine and nibbling fruits surreptitiously in a corner.

He observes all the groups of elites, but doesn’t notice Derek among them. It’s both a blessing and a curse. He’s lost Lydia away to eligible bachelors, and doesn’t dare intervene.

Stiles sneaks away upstairs, as he remembers doing when he was young, and Derek wasn’t even his yet.

How fate can twist into irony, because the situation seems to be repeating itself.

Stiles closes the oak doors of the library to lean against them, sighing for a long time, eyes closed.

“I wasn't expecting company.” A voice says.

Stiles startles and bangs his head against the wood. “Ow.” He mutters, hand flying to his skull. 

He knows it’s Derek by his voice, and turns to see him sitting on the settee, reading a book.

Stiles stares at him, and Derek blinks back, a wondrous expression settling on his features, eyes roving over him, a realisation dawning.

Stiles feels exposed, vulnerable.

“I just wanted some peace and quiet.” Stiles answers after a beat, feeling trapped. “But I can see you’re occupied, so –”

“No!” Derek stands fast, but clears his throat and composes himself. He approaches as if placating a startled animal. “No. I. I haven’t seen you – before. I just wanted to ask a few questions.”

Stiles waits.

Derek, staring, seems to realise this is his moment to speak, and says quickly, “Where are you from?”

“From ... lands across the sea.” He answers evasively.  _It’s not a lie._

“What brings you here?” Derek asks.

“I. Needed something.” Stiles answers, again stilted and vague. “Family business.” He adds.

“I never caught your name.”

“It’s. Charles. Charles Jones.” Stiles tries, fighting the urge to grimace.

Derek's mouth ticks. “It doesn't suit you, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’ve been told you aren’t known for your compliments.” Stiles replies primly.

Derek huffs humorously. “Well I suppose I could be inclined. I must say, you do look handsome.”

Stiles flushes, and plays with the hair at his ear. “Oh?” He stampers, his body already heating up instinctually at the compliment from Derek.

“The most handsome I’ve ever seen you.”

Stiles stops. Derek is standing a little bit away, and the room is dim. Stiles can’t really see his expression, cloaked in shadow and cast in darkness.

“Thank you, sir.” He says, and leaves.

He hurtles down the stairs and around the corner before Derek can follow.

Stiles’ pace is brisk as he tries to leave, but he’s caught up in a conversation with people he doesn’t care to remember the names of, and he’s kept for a while. 

“Really, I must be going.” Stiles tries to extricate himself from the situation. “It is late, sincerely I apologise.”

He asks for Lydia with his carriage, and is about to make a quick escape when Isaac and Laura hold him back to ask if he’s having a party tomorrow. 

Stiles replies he isn’t sure. Possibly. They tell him his parties are always a pleasure, which he appreciates. He really needs to go. _Goodbye._  

Stiles clambers into the carriage. It starts rolling down the palace entranceway, and he closes his eyes, sighing. 

Something makes him open them.

He sees a hooded figure sat across from him.

Stiles startles, tensing his muscles, but then Derek begins to pull the hood of his cloak away.

Stiles holds his breath. He's frozen.

Derek’s eyes shine in the moonlight. He slides over to Stiles, taking his hand, searching his face.

 _"Stiles."_ Derek whispers, agonised.

Then he flows forward and kisses him.

Stiles pushes back with everything he has, passion and hurt and _missing_ making his skin feel too tight. Derek grasps Stiles’ long hair and pulls him closer to his mouth, closer to his body.

And it’s wonderful, oh it’s _wonderful_ , as if some unknown, disjointed part of him is slotting back into its rightful place. Stiles is warmed, he’s alive.

He forces himself to pull away. Derek presses his forehead to his, uncaring, their noses touching.

“Nothing was found of you, I thought.” Derek chokes.

“Thought?” Stiles stutters and swallows, attempting to regain composure.

Derek nods. “Oh, God,” he cries and goes to kiss him again.

Stiles takes Derek's wrist, pulling away. “I’m sorry sir, you must be mistaken.” He chokes. “Lydia! Back to the palace.”

“No!” Derek shouts, voice hoarse.

“Sir, I’m only thinking of your reputation –”

“I don’t care, please Stiles, I beg of you –”

“I am not this Stiles –”

“Stop it!” Derek bellows. “Stop it, _stop!"_ His jaw sets, and then his expression seems to simply fall apart, his usually strong features crumpling in agony.

Stiles looks up and away, biting his lip as Derek cries.

The carriage turns back.

“What are you?” Derek croaks brokenly, his eyes full of water. “A spirit? Some ghost, sent to _torment_ me?”

Stiles looks down at his lap, vision blurring.

“You loved this Stiles?” He asks, turning to Derek.

Derek nods vigorously. “ _Yes_ ,” he whispers.

“For how long?”

“For my whole life.” Derek shuffles closer.

“And how long after he died, did you end the search and begin to court Princess Paige?”

Derek gapes. “You don't understand, I can explain –”

“We are at your home, now.” Stiles says and looks away. He jumps out and stands to the side.

Derek gets out slowly. He unfurls himself from sitting and sets his feet on the ground.

He looks to Lydia, standing at the front of the carriage.

“You’re right.” Derek turns to Stiles. “You cannot be my Stiles.” He states.

“Ah, well there you go.” Stiles says, all the while breaking away inside. “You said it yourself.”

Derek waits for a moment. His hand flickers at his side, as if to reach out, but Stiles is resolute.

It’s an inhumane effort, not to comfort him. 

He watches Derek slump and turn away.

Stiles exhales quickly and jumps back into the carriage. He beckons Lydia to come inside.

She sits.

“If you _ever_ attempt to involve yourself in my affairs again, I swear –”

“I did not invite the man in.”

“You allowed it, and if you expect me to believe a woman of your capabilities did not notice the _King_ clambering in, you think me a fool.”

She sighs. “This man, it’s – it’s him. He’s Derek.”

“That is not up for discussion.” Stiles replies through clenched teeth.

“I told you that night that you led us to the treasure that I will stand by and protect you for all my life.” Lydia begins. “I keep my promises, and I will protect you, even if that means from yourself.”

“You cannot _begin_ to understand –”

“No, I cannot.” Lydia states. “But King Hale is in love with you, as you are with him. Whatever he has done, forgive him and be happy.”

“I would.” Stiles clenches his jaw. “It’s he that doesn’t want that.”

Lydia stands and goes to leave. “If you think that that gentleman does not adore you, then I do believe you to be a fool.” She exits and jumps atop the front.

The ride back to the estate is quiet.

Halfway through, Stiles notices Derek’s discarded cloak. He touches it gently, bringing it up to his face. 

It’s so wonderfully immersed in him, in his cool, crisp, heady scent. Stiles smiles and rubs it all over his face, but his eyes sting abruptly, the euphoria of the smell making him slightly inebriated.

He sleeps oddly that night, breaking into fits of crying with having lost Derek permanently, and fits of laughter, with having stolen his cloak, and sleeping naked in it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what today is? 
> 
> Well, other than being the weekly day to update, today is actually my birthday! I don't think I've ever posted on my birthday and so this is pretty much a first! Either way, enjoy this happy(er) update, and I'll be seeing you very soon!

The banquets are cancelled for the immediate future. He spars more violently with Lydia, and merely receives an eyebrow when he slashes her suit.

He shrugs apologetically, retreating to his rooms afterwards.

Weeks pass in this manner. He doesn’t speak, rarely eats, still washes twice a day, and paints so much his hands ache. He feels tired, a throbbing wound not immediately painful, but hurt.

He goes to the market early in the morning for some art supplies and groceries. He’s just making his way back, and closes his eyes for a moment, to enjoy the cool air and the atmosphere of the marketplace, before he collides with none other than Laura Hale.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Stiles apologises profusely, picking up the market goods strewn about the ground and desperately scrambling to remember how to address a princess. “I’ll –”

She waves him off carelessly. “It’s no matter.” Laura says quickly, and hands him his things.

Stiles smiles tightly, trying to insinuate his leaving by nodding his head.

“Sir, I believe you lied to me.” Laura begins quietly.

Stiles glances up quickly, pulse flying.

“I was led to believe your infamous parties would continue.” Laura states. “I was mistaken.”

“Ah, yes. We had a few – complications.” He says vaguely.

“King Hale thoroughly enjoyed your evenings.” She glances at him, searching.

Stiles lowers his eyes to the ground. “That is kind, please.” He clears his throat. “Please pass on my thanks.”

“I think your Majesty would feel more comfortable thanking you in person.” Laura tells him.

“There's really no need –”

"I insist.” She states. “We could not go another day knowing we have not given our gratitude properly.” Laura places on a pained smile, but her eyes are roving. Stiles feels oddly on display.

But it would appear strange to simply refuse. “Have King Hale come to my home this evening.” Stiles decides. “He can thank me then.” He replies stiltedly. 

Laura nods, still smiling with effort. “I’ll pass on the message.”

 

*

_19 th January 1816_

Stiles has the whole estate cleaned from top to bottom. He dusts the stairway. He plumps the cushions. He lines the ornaments. He separates the flowers. He wipes the dining table. He washes three times, and changes over a hundred. He practises poses and expressions in the mirror. He –

The knock comes.

Stiles’ pulse jumps in his throat and his stomach lurches painfully, a wave of nausea sweeping through him.  

He opens the door. 

Derek stands with a bottle of fine wine, his hair combed neatly and parted.

He doesn’t look the King then, even with his robes and his grace. He simply looks like Derek, _Stiles’_ Derek.

“Come in, please.” Stiles says around the tight sensation in his throat.

“Thank you. I wanted to give you this.” He hands Stiles the wine quickly. Stiles sets it down om the nearest table.

“I also wanted to inquire on the whereabouts of my cloak? I must have left in the carriage.” Derek’s ears have turned red. 

Stiles blinks at him.

Then it registers. His brain stutters. The cloak. He knew there was something missing. God, he’s been sleeping in it for nearly a fortnight.

“I, uh. Excuse me?” Stiles frowns. “I don't remember seeing anything.”

Derek frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, sir. I would have the good grace as to return it.” _Normally,_ Stiles thinks. 

“Oh. No matter.” Derek says.” I can always replace it.”

Stiles nods. Derek still stands there, awkwardly. 

“Was there anything else?” Stiles starts.

“Have I thanked you for your kind service during your gatherings?”

“I do not believe so, but I give my regards, also.” Stiles nods his head.

He turns away to fuss about in the hallway. Derek sits stiltedly on the settee and folds his hands.

Stiles feigns ignorance and strides across the expanse of the main hall. He straightens the curtains. They’re shaking, oddly, until he realises his hands are trembling.

Stiles grits his teeth to quell the irrational quavers. 

Several moments pass. 

He turns to Derek down the hall. “What do you want?” He inquires curtly.

There’s no immediate reply.

“I want to be free of you.” Derek answers finally.

Stiles freezes.

“I want to be free of you, as you are so clearly free of me.” Derek finishes, monotone.

Stiles is silent.

“Just a few simple questions. That’s all I ask.” Derek suddenly says, pleading, his gaze coming up to pierce Stiles.

“Then ask.” Stiles says with a gesture, and turns away to sort the drapery.

Derek twiddles with his clothes, uncertain. “Where have you _been?"_ Comes the agonised whisper.

“The lost islands for five years, and everywhere else you can imagine.” Stiles says, no longer able to keep up the charade.

“The lost …” Derek trails off.

“I was abducted and abandoned, and lived there for a time.” Stiles begins, no inflection in his voice. “A rogue clan came, and I left with them. We sailed across the ocean to America, and from the docks at the harbour to the castle.”

Derek stands up suddenly, speechless.

“Two months ago, I arrived at the castle finally –”

“No.” Derek says, eyes wide.

“But you didn't recognise me, and I didn’t want to come as a shock –”

“No, you –”

“So, I decided to return whence in better shape, and instigate myself back into your life gradually.” Stiles tells him. “However, I discovered by the village that you had found another.”

 _"No!"_ Derek shouts, and steps closer abruptly, chest heaving. “Stiles, no. You can’t think –”, he cuts off then and breathes, gaze roaming all over Stiles, hands coming outstretched in an aborted gesture. “You should have _come to me.”_ He swallows, and tightens his fists to his side.

“I was malnourished and unkempt, you were asleep, I did not want to wake you, shock you and cause a commotion.” Stiles states tonelessly. “Over the following days, however, I found you had a new life, and did not wish to disrupt it.”

“God, Stiles!” Derek curses, thrusting a hand through his hair. “How could I have–”, he chokes, and then his breathing becomes erratic, panicked. “Why are you torturing me?” He gasps.

“Why didn't you _WAIT!?"_ Stiles explodes, unable to contain himself any longer, and strides forward. “I thought of our reunion every day. I _dreamt_ of the moment –”

“I –” Derek shouts, striding closer.

“And then I came back! I came back to discover you were to be married!” Stiles cries.

 _"I believed you to be dead!"_ Derek booms, and it seems to shake the walls.

Stiles freezes.

“After one month, after no evidence, after all I had done – _nothing!_ ” Derek shouts. “I began to go insane, I became obsessed! Peter advised me to end the hunt, I decided the best option was to continue the search in secret, as to not look mad to the public. I returned to my duties, but I never, ever stopped, _never_ –” He cuts off abruptly, overcome.

Stiles is silent. Derek swallows, clenches his jaw, and looks at him.

“After a while, it was suggested I marry again.” Suddenly Derek is scoffing, turning away. “How many _times_ I refused! I refused and refused and refused, endlessly. And yet, when Princess Paige visited, Laura stated that a marriage would unite conflicted lands. I spoke with Paige, and I told her I could not, I simply _cannot_ , and we agreed to remain friends, to play a courtship but nothing else, to keep peace. The Kingdom will forever be empty in this respect, for I shall never find another until you come home, please _come home_ , I miss you every second it has surpassed missing by now, I – Paige proclaims we will wed in some years to come, but it is a fable, a _lie_ , these last six years, Stiles, I haven’t touched or been touched like that by anyone, I couldn’t even bear to touch myself.” Derek’s eyes are shining, wet. “You know that I have never been a religious man, and I will never understand what higher power has made us live these. Last. Six. _Years._ Apart, but when I kissed you in the carriage, I knew there must be a God, for he has given me a second chance at life.”

Stiles stands, his chest heaving, his blood singing, flowing to his cheeks. He makes a move forward.

Derek shifts and takes a step to him, and then another brisk one, and suddenly Stiles is running, arms out involuntarily, propelling himself forwards.

Derek catches him and crushes his body, and they’re kissing, frantically, pulling at clothes and pushing at each other and Stiles needs to just _feel_ Derek’s skin against his and know that they’re together.

Derek hefts him up and carries him upstairs, they reroute to Stiles’ bedroom and fall onto the mattress kissing, Stiles can’t stop kissing, anywhere he can reach, anything revealed to him.

Derek repeats his name against his lips reverently, his hands moving quickly all over sometimes, and in other times grasping him, clutching at his body, trembling and overwrought. 

“Shhh.” Stiles murmurs, stroking as he quakes. “Shhh.”

“Stiles.” Derek breathes, exhaling. “I knew, I. Stiles. _Stiles.”_

Stiles nods, carding fingers through his hair. Derek seems to relax slightly, slowing in his movements.

He leans down and gently kisses his nose. Then his cheekbones. Then his eyelids, his eyebrows, all his little moles and freckles, the corners of his eyes, the bones of his ear. 

“I love you. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.” Derek is murmuring, almost as if he can’t help it.

Stiles runs his hands back and forth across Derek’s back, swallowing convulsively, his eyes burning hot.

Derek kisses away his tears, touching Stiles with his warm, broad hands, nose skimming his cheek, his sides, kissing down his protruding ribs, memorising the feel of him.

They make love slowly. When they were young, their encounters were passionate and quick, too wanting for each other to draw it out.

Now, they slow.

They understand the sanctity of the act, and they move together rhythmically, pushing against one another, rising and falling as the tide. Their sweat creates friction, and Stiles buries his face into Derek's shoulder, pleasure building and cresting. He cries aloud with the beauty of it, of being together, fully and completely, intensely blinding. He is finally whole.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally nearing the end, and although I know some might still have questions regarding Kate, Derek's action's during Stiles' disappearance, etc. I do hope to continue this into a series, and have a Derek POV story next. So never fear! If you still have questions, let me know and I will do my best to answer them later down the line! This one may be finished, but the story isn't!

In the morning, Stiles wakes. His body is paralysed for a long time in seeing Derek lying in his bed, he's frozen with shock.

It almost feels a dream. Stiles is sure it is. He never truly allowed himself to believe he would have this again. That he could.

Stiles watches Derek sleep, just lays there beside him and gazes down.

Derek’s back is bare, the sheet falling lower as he breathes, and so Stiles pulls the forgotten cloak over him and digs around for his sketchbook. 

He begins to memorise Derek’s nuances, his minutiae, every fingernail and eyelash where his head rests on the pillow, one hand lying near his face, his features slack in sleep, lax and trusting.

It’s a while before Derek starts to fidget. He stretches his whole body and turns away from Stiles, arms raising above his head and spine arching. He exhales blissfully, rubbing his face against the pillow.

Then he suddenly gasps and bolts upright in bed. 

He whips his head around wildly, this way and that, but stops when he notices Stiles, sitting curled on the bed drawing. Stiles laughs at Derek.

“Your hair is defying gravity.” Stiles tells him, smiling.

Derek stares, eyes wide and hair tufted on one side. “Am I in a dream?” He inquires, voice scratchy and rough.

Stiles reaches across and caresses his cheek. “No. You’re here.” He smiles. “You were always groggy in the morning.”

Derek blinks. “Stiles.” He says. Then suddenly the man himself is being crushed to death. _“Stiles.”_ Derek breathes into his hair.

Stiles brings his arms up and embraces Derek in return.

“Oh, Stiles!” Derek cries.

Stiles laughs freely, stroking his nape, smoothing his disarrayed hair.

Derek pulls back in overexcitement to glance at his face, suddenly pushing forwards again so much such so that their heads collide. Stiles reels back, and Derek curses, hands flying to cover his forehead. Stiles can feel Derek’s heart pounding this close.

“Derek.” Stiles soothes. “It’s alright. It just me.”

Then Derek starts to hyperventilate.

It takes longer than expected to calm Derek down. Stiles had thought he might not have such a great reaction, as he’d already guessed beforehand of Stiles’ identity.

This is precisely what he was hoping to avoid.

There is some amount of pinching. Stiles’ cheeks, his sides, his hair, lips, thighs, even his buttocks. Derek even pinches _himself_ on numerous occasions. 

Then there come the questions.  

“How have you been Stiles? Really? How is your digestion? Are your bowels moving regularly? Are you breathing alright? Is your chest tight, heart fast? No wheezing? Are your muscles cramped? How are your headaches? Any fever?”

Then comes movement.

It appears Derek has lost all semblance of posture. He thumps his head against the headrest twice, and walks directly into the bed panel for good measure. He attempts to rise, but seems to slip on the sheet haphazardly covering him and topples once more. 

He jumps up as Stiles rushes to him, brushes himself off, nods once, and strides into the bathroom.

Stiles decides to leave him, dresses and goes down to the dining area, asking for breakfast.

Lydia often leaves in the morning, to ride out in the fields. Stiles sits, watching outside the window, and waits.

Derek comes clattering down the staircase. 

“St – Stiles?” Derek calls. Stiles rises up.

“Stiles?” Derek calls louder, almost shouting now.

“Sir – oh my, Your Majesty.” His sweet servant is heard. “I'm deeply sorry, Your Grace, a Sir Stiles does not reside here. A mister –”

“Stiles? He was –” Derek enters into another room. _"Stiles?"_ He booms.

Stiles quickens his walk. “Derek?” He calls timidly. There’s a thump, and he hears Derek cross into the adjoining room. 

“Where are you?” Derek speaks, clearly distressed. “Have I finally gone mad?”

Stiles walks out into the hallway, trying to gauge where he is. He sees Derek’s retreating back moving into another room, and so Stiles opens his mouth, going after him.

“I'm coming!” He reassures quickly, before Derek becomes frantic again. The estate is a large one, and the walls can often echo. 

Derek moves onto the dining room, the one that Stiles was waiting in. He sighs in relief, entering. 

Derek is absent.

 _"Wh?"_ Stiles articulates, glancing around.

“Are you here?” Derek asks from the hallway.

“How – one moment!” Stiles shouts. He hears Derek start to move.

“No!” He cries. “No. Do not move.” Stiles says sternly. He sighs, suddenly tired, leaning against the door. “Just a moment.” He huffs a laugh, placing a hand on the wood. “Just _wait.”_

He opens the door.

Derek is standing, his clothes utterly bunched and untidy, thrown on haphazardly, hair unkempt, cheeks hot. He stares.

Stiles smiles as he continues to simply stare.

Derek approaches slowly, walking until he’s standing right in front of him.

It’s Stiles who acts first, reaching upwards to wrap arms around him and tuck his chin into the space between Derek’s shoulder and his jaw. He nestles his nose into the curve of Derek’s neck, breathing deep.

He doesn’t know how long they stand, enveloped. All he knows is that when they part, Stiles is calmed. Derek breathing has regulated, his pulse has slowed.

“Why don’t we have breakfast, and then we can talk?” Stiles suggests.

Derek's shoulders relax, just slightly.

 

*

Derek sits beside him, as close as physically possible, his side pressed along Stiles’ shoulder as they eat.

They talk; Stiles asks him about the ongoings in the Kingdom, his sisters, the knights.

Derek replies, all the while gazing at him. Stiles knows he’s desperate to ask Stiles about himself, but does not want to dampen this moment, so whence Derek does ask, Stiles replies lightly.

“When I was stranded, I remembered some useful information on survival, and I kept calm. The first few weeks were hardest, most assuredly, but I believed I would live, I believed I would see you again.”

He takes Derek’s calloused hand, pressing closer.

“That was possibly the most vital part in my survival.” He begins. “I must have survived solely on spirit, on _belief_ , of reunion. Now that I have returned to you, I wish for nothing else than to be with you, body and soul, to be your constant advisor, your lover and your friend, your family. I find you lonely: I will be your companion. I find you ill: your comforter.” Stiles takes Derek’s jaw in his hands. “Please cease to look so sad, my dearest King, you _shall not_ be, for as long as I live.” He swears.

Derek does not reply at first, then, opening his mouth he sighs, and closes again.

Stiles feels embarrassed.

Perhaps he’s overleaped conventionalities, disregarded proper etiquette. He knows Derek still holds him in the highest regard, but that doesn’t directly correlate to everything returning as it were, and all their years spent apart disregarded.

Stiles had made his speech from the assumption his feelings were mutual, an expectation made from last night, but as there were not words exchanged to this, he realises he’s possibly been a fool, and has misunderstood everything all together. 

Stiles begins to withdraw from Derek’s body, gently pushing away, but as he does so Derek blinks, and grasps him close once more, drawing him into his chest.

“No, _no._ Stiles, do not go. You must not leave me, must not separate from me by an inch. For then you’ll disappear, as you’ve done so many times before.”

Stiles smiles, relieved. He chuckles when Derek kisses the top of his head fiercely. 

“I suppose you see me as I once were; your compassionate King. Absolved of all guilt, and yet I – embittered, a useless _wrench_.” He utters incoherently.

Stiles smoothes his disarrayed hair. “What are you talking about?”

Derek averts his eyes. “I’m wholly responsible for your disappearance, Stiles, and that knowledge has been acid to my soul. All these years we have been apart, my spirit had flaked away, blistered as an infected wound. It encompasses my being. I can’t be absolved of all sin, I don’t deserve this joy, and even as I know that, I’m incapable of walking, of simply unlocking my grip of you and letting you leave my line of vision.” He looks down quickly, jaw clenched. “So, you’ll have to physically remove yourself from me, and go quickly, now that you’re aware of this.”

Stiles tries to mask his smile. If this is all that troubles him and stands between the two, it shall be easier than he had anticipated to reinstate himself back into the palace, back into Derek’s life.

“You believe that because you’re the King, I was kidnapped as a direct association to you.”

Derek huffs. “I do not _believe_ so, I know so, and –”

“You’re right.”

Derek stops, and his expression seems to fluctuate before he briskly turns away his head, averting his gaze down.

Stiles places a hand on his cheek. “And to have never known you would have been a far worse punishment.”

“Do not say things you don’t –” Derek voice cracks audibly. “And tell me of your ordeal as if it were a mere – I’m not such a fool to think the pain you must have –” here he abandons his speech, and his breathes catch in his throat, closing over. 

“I did have a painful and lonely time.” Stiles begins softly. Derek glances up to him, expression tormented.

“I survived at will most days, finding daily food was a constant struggle, and shelter as well.” Stiles carries on, and huffs. “You would not believe how often it rains at sea, on one small sunny island. But the rain saved my life. I caught the water in hand-crafted buckets. The fruit I discovered in the trees gave me strength, and the exercise did me good. The sun beat down on my back, I achieved blisters, cracked skin.”

Stiles pauses, watching Derek, and then continues. “Yet it warmed me, and the salt from the sea cleansed my sores. It taught me a lesson; things that appear the worst at first are often the things that will give you life. I had a long time to think, to rationalise and observe. The time I spent there gave me wisdom and worldliness, and I have little tolerance for trivial matters that may keep us parted now.” Stiles states. “You believe yourself to be guilty? Know that that is not the case. In your situation, I would have been overridden with guilt, a natural thing, but not one that I would let keep us apart now. I knew fully what I was entering into when I decided to be your consort, and I know you would had done everything in your capability to retrieve me, nothing short of inhuman.”

Derek shakes his head, and Stiles cradles Derek’s jaw in his hands.

“You believe because you’re a lycanthrope that this excludes you? Then you will know that the person who abducted me was a sorceress, and took the necessary precautions to have you unawares. For me to feel resent towards you would be for the cosmos to resent the universe – we are one, impossibly, to resent you would be to resent myself, only you are not myself, you are a higher version conjoined to me, a sublime life form: all that I love in this world and inside of me.” 

Derek lays his forehead against Stiles’ chest, and breathes for some time, caressing his sides and dampening Stiles’ tunic with his wet cheeks, his nose pressed to Stiles’ wildly beating heart. 

“My dear little returnee.” He murmurs. “It should not be for one man to hold all the joy in the world.” His voice is a mere breath. 

Stiles chuckles lightly, but Derek is continuing.

“Has laugher been swallowed inside mouths, light extinguished from chandeliers, all to accommodate this happiness? I’ve often been told by many that heaven is not a place, simply an experience of warmth, of floating in the presence of God.” He sighs, a slow exhalation that seems to convey more joy and wistful longing than words could express. 

Stiles strokes the soft hair at the nape of his neck, his appetite lost for breakfast, content to simply reacquaint himself with Derek. And yet, as the minutes pass, Stiles feels Derek grow agitated again, even after all he has told him. 

“You told me you arrived some months before?” Derek begins. He pulls back, and gazes at Stiles with wide eyes. “If only I had _known,_ I should have recognised you –”

“Derek, I had been at sea for five years. I was bedraggled, dirty and unwashed.”

Derek’s brows come together as he shakes his head. Stiles smoothes his forehead with a thumb, and smiles fondly. “I would not have expected you to know me. Time affects the memory, and my image would have faded from your mind. I was a stranger to even myself in that state, the time was late, the night was dark. There was no possibility for you to recognise me.”

Derek shakes his head harshly. “I still should have known your scent, your _heart.”_ He grinds his teeth, breathing hard. “I’ve failed you yet once more.”

“Do not say such things.” Stiles hisses angrily.

“The truth. I speak the truth, Stiles.” Derek tells him. “Your forgiveness is balm to my being, but I am not worthy of this mercy, after everything I’ve done.”

Sadness wells inside him, and Stiles searches for anything that will put Derek at ease. He bitterly regrets ever telling Derek he came two months prior; all this knowledge could bring to Derek is agony. 

“I would reassure you of my love until my tongue flew from my throat and my words fell on deafened ears, but I see that this will do no good. No.” Stiles thinks for a moment.

“Come.” Stiles stands up, holding out a hand. “Come a walk with me. Neither of us are hungry, and I wish for some exercise.”

Derek stands, takes his hand and presses his palm hard.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!
> 
> So, this update is a few days late, I know, but I'm currently in hospital with a Crohn's flare up, and didn't know when I would be able to post. 
> 
> I had hoped to post once I was out, but that doesn't seem to be for another few days at least, as they're still quite unsure what to do with me, so I'm posting now, as this was pre-written, and well. I'm feeling rather meh, truth be told. I suppose I wanted something to lift my spirits and act as a distraction, so finishing this (rather late), I figured would be a good idea.

They spend the morning walking in the open gardens of the estate, and Stiles gestures to the places he would paint, and often sit for whole days in thought.

The air is light and crisp, the grass dewy and sunlit, the colours of autumn permeating all that lives. The sky is a refreshing blue, a taste in the mouth of winter. Everything is as it should be, and Stiles breathes it all in with full lungs.

He sees a cool, dry place for them to rest, underneath a large oak, and doesn’t resist when Derek pulls him to his lap. Why should he, when they are each aware that they are happier nearer than apart?

Derek urges for more details of his experience, his posture terse, his expression blank, however on occasions stricken, and becoming clouded with woe.

Stiles livens his adventures considerably, and recounts to Derek when the buccaneers came, his dear friends. He’s in the middle of talking about the journey across the ocean when Derek suddenly lifts a hand.

“Stiles.” Derek interrupts. “When you say your good friends – do you mean well respectable, kind elderly men of fifty?”

Stiles purses his mouth to keep from laughing. _What an idea_ , he thinks, to shake Derek from his sadness and his guilt. 

“Actually, they were young women of twenty, Kira, Malia and Lydia.”

“And these young women.” Derek begins. “They were not particularly beautiful, rather unattractive, would you say?”

“They were each exquisite in their own way.” Stiles replies honestly.

“So, their minds then – they were rather dull and unintelligent?” Derek tries.

“Rather the opposite. They were wonderful conversationalists.”

“So inevitably, each married or to be wed?”

“On several occasions, Malia wished for an amorous relationship with me, and once, Lydia approached the subject of becoming lifelong partners.” Stiles admits. It’s true, although he admitted to both his heart belongs to another.

“Lydia?” Derek asks. “Lydia, the one who stays with you now?”

“Why, yes.”

“The one – the young women with the flowing auburn hair?”

 _Flowing_ auburn. Hmm. Stiles didn’t intend for this exercise to backfire. “That would be correct.” He says shortly, mouth pursed.

“And she – she wishes to become your lover?” Derek blinks.

“She did.” He nods.

Derek clenches his jaw, blinking fiercely and looking down. “You must go.” His voice is fractured oddly, splintered and choked. 

“Excuse me?” Stiles says in amusement.

“Clearly I have been mistaken. I thought this little returnee was all mine.” His grip tightens for a moment before loosening quickly, hands jerking away. “But that is not the case. Obviously, you would rather be with this – Lydia, the person who was with you when I was not. Go quickly, Stiles, and please don’t glance backwards.”

Stiles grins down at him in fondness. “I am not going anywhere.”

“Ugh – _Stiles!"_ Derek’s voice rises in frustration. “Why do you torture me so? I grant you permission, you do not have to feel obliged. Please leave me now!”

“And where would I go?” He asks politely.

“To be with this Lydia you have just spoke of! You wish to be with her.”

“I no more wish to be with her than I do anybody right now, and by that, I mean I do not wish to be with anybody else but you in this moment.”

“Stiles.” Derek says. “Do not feel the need to placate me, I understand your feelings have changed. Go now.”

“I will not.”

“Stiles.” He repeats.

“Shake me.” Stiles laughs. “You may shake me, push me away, but I will not leave your side.”

Derek will still not meet his gaze, so Stiles places a hand on his cheek to tilt his head upwards. Derek pushes his face away.

“I repeat it, you can leave. How often must I say the same thing? Why do you remain perched so comfortably on my knee?” Derek grits his teeth.

“Because I am comfortable here.” Stiles states simply.

“No, you are not comfortable, Stiles, because your heart is not with me. It belongs to this woman.” Derek shakes his head, and then clenches his jaw. “Long have we been parted, the hot _tears_ I’ve wept over our separation. I never could have imagined you were loving another.” He grits his teeth, and swallows. “But it’s useless, leave me, go marry Ms. Lydia.”

“Try to shake me off then, I’ve told you I'm not leaving.” Stiles repeats.

“Stiles, please. The tone of your voice, it is so playful, it carries me back years. But I'm no fool, go –”

“And where should I go?” Stiles tilts his head playfully.

“Away, to be with this _wife_ you have chosen –” 

“And who is that?”

“You know who, this – _Ms. Lydia_.” Derek is growing frustrated, jaw clenched.

“She is not my wife, nor shall she ever be. She does not love me, I do not love her. Lydia merely wanted to become my partner out of convenience, and because I had gained her trust. She is one of my greatest friends, but feels no love, no desire for me.” Stiles explains. “She is not like you; I’m not happy by her side, or near her, or with her, the way I am with you. So, I must leave my place here, and go to her?”

Stiles shudders involuntarily at the thought, his hands tightening on Derek. 

Derek stares at him agape before he starts to smile, his eyes lighting. “What, Stiles?” He asks. “Is this true? Is this really the state of matters between you and Lydia?”

“Of course!” Stiles huffs in exasperation, finally dropping the act. “Oh, Derek, you needn’t be jealous – I only wanted to tease you a little to try and distract you from your melancholy thoughts. I’m sorry I jest. But I still don’t understand your insecurities.” He says. “To believe as instantaneously that I don’t love you any more, if only you could see how much I _do_ love you. All of my heart belongs to you, Derek, I am yours, fully and completely, that’s why I cannot part from you.”

Derek kisses him soundly, then pulls back to press his nose to Stiles’ and just breathe, their smiles bumping against each other’s.

“Do you know, Stiles, not just recently – before you came upon the castle those months ago, before you came back and spent all that time under a false identity. Well, before all this, one night, something rather strange happened.” Derek begins, straightening as if to tell a story.

Stiles waits, listening.

“A singular mood came over me. My frenzy to find you was replaced with a grief – with sorrow, I suppose. I was, I suppose you could say, suddenly grief-stricken.” Derek tells him. “I dreaded that since I had searched so long for you and found nothing, you must be dead. I went to bed that night, retired to my chambers early, but as I lay, I pleaded to God. I asked that, if it seemed good to Him, I might soon be taken from this life, and admitted to the world to come, where there was some hope of joining you.”

Stiles is silent, holding his breath in his chest.

“So, I was in my room, and got up to sit by the window, because I felt a need for the night air. The window was open, I felt the chill against my skin, and oh, I longed for thee.” Derek says. “How I _longed_ for thee, Stiles, with both soul and flesh! I asked God, in anguish and humility, if I had not been long enough desolate, long enough tormented – might I soon experience the peace and tranquillity of our reunion in death. That I had merited all I endured, I knew I had deserved the agony, but I could scarcely endure anymore.” Derek's grip on his tightens.

Stiles feels his eyes burning.

“I pleaded, my heart swelled in my chest, and suddenly my soul burst through, broke free from my lips in the words, ‘Stiles! _Stiles!’”_

Stiles freezes, stilling. “Did you say those words aloud?”

“I did.” Derek grins. “If anybody had heard, they would have thought me utterly mad. I spoke with such frantic energy, as though there was hope of you hearing.”

“And this was some month’s past?” Stiles blinks.

“Yes, the time is no consequence, however, what followed was the strangest thing.” Derek grins. “You might think me rather superstitious. I have always been, I admit, but what I’m about to say is true, or at least, it’s true that this is what I heard. After I shouted those words, a voice, and I couldn’t tell you where from, although I _knew_ whose it was, I knew in my very core, replied, _'I am coming, wait for me.'_ And then a moment later, a whispering breath went, _'I love you.’”_  

Stiles is frozen, in shock.

“I'll tell you, if I can, I'll try to express the picture these words opened to my mind.” Derek begins. “The chamber walls are a thick wood, and sounds fall dull. The _'I love you,'_ however, seemed to be spoken amongst mountains, across the vastness of the sea, for I heard an echo reverberate in the words, I felt the wind come with them the breeze and the salt on my face. The air seemed fresher, and in my mind, I imagined some wild, lone scene wherein you and I were meeting.” Derek is smiling, soft and quiet. “In spirit, I believe we must have met. You were no doubt were sleeping, but maybe your soul wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your cadences, your voice, as certain as I live – I knew it was you.”

It was that same night months ago that Stiles had heard Derek’s voice on the ship, as clear as though he were standing in front of Stiles, and those were the very words he had replied.

Stiles is stuck dumb with the coincidence, and it feels too inexplicable and great to be communicated.

“You now know why I was so bewildered and disbelieving to see you that night, or somebody so closely resembling you.” Derek continues. “I thought my mind had dredged up your image in some hallucination, just like that night. It was simply a coincidence: my brain was simply remembering your face as it had your voice. I was slowly going insane. Now, however, I know it to be otherwise. That is why I thanked God yesterday for giving me life: for I believe he brought you back to me. Yes, I do, I thank God!”

Derek closes his eyes reverently and places a kiss to Stiles’ brow, with such a tender devotion that it squeezes Stiles’ chest. 

Water stands in Stiles’ eyes, and he returns a kiss to Derek’s smooth forehead, brushing back his hair, and, swallowing harshly with the emotion that threatens to overwhelm.

He decides to keep the knowledge to himself, the memory his own experience, until such things are more settled. 

They stay that way for a while, in tranquil euphoria, basking in the others presence. He feels Derek’s large, heated palm stroke up and down his back, along his spine, and shivers in his arms. 

Derek brings his head up, grins slowly, and he feels fingertips trail down the colour working its way up his throat. 

Stiles shudders again. “It’s – it’s been a long time.” He confesses quietly.

Derek smiles softly. “I’m aware. I’ve spent the same amount of time longing for you.” 

Stiles shivers. “I’ve missed your touch, your skin.” He murmurs.

“As have I.” Derek says quietly.

Just then, most embarrassingly, Stiles’ stomach gurgles.

And not subtly, no: it’s the loudest, most unattractive noise he’s ever heard. He feels himself heat throughout his whole body as Derek stares, then tilts his head back laughing. 

In Stiles’ mortification, he still feels joy at that sound, that carelessly happy, ecstatic noise.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have missed breakfast.” Derek chuckles fondly.

Stiles rolls his eyes, huffing. “Possibly not.”

“Well then.” Derek stands, pulling him up, and then suddenly swings him into his arms and over his shoulder. Stiles squawks indignantly, but Derek pays him no mind, instead striding back to the estate.

 

*

And that’s how Laura finds them the next day, alone in the dining room of the castle: Stiles sprawled across Derek’s lap on the chair at the head of the table, both laughing and feeding each other grapes, pieces of fruit and cheese, exchanging kisses and touches in between. 

She takes one glance and collapses in shock. 

Later, as they all crouch over her worriedly, the servants bending to feel her forehead, Derek hands her a glass of cool water as Stiles stands behind them all, too afraid to approach and cause another commotion.

But she simply shakes her head, takes a sip and says, “I’m sorry, I just – I haven't heard that laugh in nearly six and a half years.”

 

*

It’s a gradual thing, but Stiles begins to instigate himself back into his old life, as he had hoped and planned to do all those months ago.

He finally meets Paige, and discovers her to be just as gentle and kind as everyone had described her. Laura and Cora rejoice, almost in hysterics, but only once they’ve regained their composure and gotten over the shock of seeing him.

Derek simply laughs throughout it, although he does try to gently extract Stiles once the commotion grows too loud, and Stiles begins to feel overwhelmed.

Nothing more is ever known of Stiles’ captor, but the search is finally called to an end. Derek talks in hushed tones to men Stiles has never met, but they leave the castle that day. Derek waves off Stiles’ worry, and tells him that those men were hired to find him.

The rest of the kingdom appears – unusually _unfazed_ about the whole affair, which leaves Stiles rather perplexed.

But as soon as he sees his parents, their faces tell him everything.

There’s love in their eyes, and tears, joy and emotion, but never, not once, is there shock.

“We knew you would come back.” His mother whispers, cupping his face in her hands. “We knew, because Derek never stopped believing.”

 

*

 

> _Even if the reasons change_  
>  _It’s never gonna freeze again_  
>  _Even if the matters change_  
>  _We’re all gonna remain the same_
> 
>   
>  _All that is what I want_  
>  _All that is what I want_
> 
>   
>  _Across another river_  
>  _Reached the ocean just before sunset_  
>  _Bombing started with a roar_  
>  _Yet we’re unfazed we’re un-amazed_  
>  _We’re staying calm and chasing_  
>  _Other details, not that easy though_
> 
>   
>  _All that is what I want_  
>  _All that is what I want_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all who have followed the story to the very end, and kept commenting with your lovely words and fantastic (often hilariously outraged) opinions. It has truly lifted my mood, and I appreciate anyone who takes time out of their day to drop me some feedback. 
> 
> I realise not every loose end has been tied, but I do plan on continuing the story into a series, with Derek's POV, and maybe some explanation of Kate. Let me know what you all think, what you would like answered, and what you want to see next! Much love <333
> 
> The beautiful [ song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkbQjWWSSuc)that inspired much of this content <33
> 
> I'm also Peasantaries on [Tumblr](https://peasantaries.tumblr.com/), [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/peasantaries), and [ Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/peasantaries/)! Come over and talk to me! I'll never bite <33
> 
> If you want to find ways to support me, you can find them there! (*^▽^*)( ﾉ^ω^)ﾉﾟ


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